■ 


f 


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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/chrisongstrOOIyon 


•    LMAR    8  1933  ^ 

CHRISTIAN     SONGS, 
TRANSLATIONS, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY   THE 


REV    JAMES  GILBORNE  LYONS,  LLD 


THE  SERVICE  OF  SONG." 


PHILADELPHIA: 

BMITH,  ENGLISH  &  CO.,   23  NORTH  SIXTH  STREET. 

1861. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the    year  1860,  by 

JAMES    GILBORNE   LYONS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PBIHTXD   BY   KISG   &   EAIRD. 


CONTENTS 


CHRISTIAN   SONGS. 


I : 


1  SING    WITH    THE    HARP. 

THE   TRIUMPHS    OF   OUR   LANGUAGE. 

A    WELCOME    SACRIFICE. 

THE   BLEST   OF    EARTH. 

A   CHILD   AT   PLAY.      . 

THE    NOBLE    MARINER. 

JESUS    WALKING    ON    THE    SEA.       . 

RELIGION    IN    YOUTH. 

THE    HEROINE   MARTYR   OF    MONTEREY. 

THE   BLOOMING   OF   VIOLETS. 

THE    RETURN    TO   LEZAYRE. 

A  king's  MEMORIAL. 

THE    STORMS    AND   STARS    OF    MARCH. 

THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  SHORES  OF  THE 

THE    REJOICING    OF    THE    VALIANT 

A    CHRISTIAN'S   LIFE. 

THE    MOUNTAIN    WIND. 

TRUST    NOT    IN    MAN. 

THE    WELCOME    LAND. 

A    GRAVE    IN    THE    OZARKS. 


PAGE. 
9 

11 

16 

18 

20 
22 
25 
26 
27 
29 
31 
33 
35 
87 
39 
41 
42 
44 
46 
48 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHRISTIAN"   SONGS. 


THE   TORRENT   OF    ARABIA. 
THE    PROPHETS. 
' '  SORROW   TURNED   INTO   JOY. ' ' 

OH  !    STEAL    NOT   THOU    MY    FAITH 
"IT   IS    FINISHED." 

THE    FLOWERS   OF   GOD. 
BE   THOU,   O   GOD,  MY"   GUARD    AN 
THE   TEMPEST    STILLED. 
THE    FIRST-BORN   OF   EGYPT. 
GOODNESS   ALONE   RENOWNED. 
THE   LETTER   FROM   HOME. 
AN    EVENING   HYMN. 
THE   MAGNETIC   TELEGRAPH. 
THE   CHRISTIAN    BANNER.     . 
A  CHRISTIAN    STRIFE. 
LONGING   FOR   HOME. 
"GOOD    TIDINGS   OF   GREAT   JOY." 

IMAGES    OF   GOD. 

THE   JOYS    OF   HEAVEN. 

THE    VENAL   SANCTUARY.      . 

A  poet's  LAST  SONG. 

A    VOICE   FROM   THE   GRAVE. 

THE   RIVER   SACO. 

THE    ROCK    IN    THE   ATLANTIC. 

A    MARTYR'S   VICTORY. 
uTHE   JOY   OF   THE   HARP." 

Sanctions  for  Christian  Song 


CONTENTS. 


TRANSLATIONS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


MILTON    TO    HIS    FATIIER.      . 
THE    MOURNING    FOR   BION. 
SPRING-TIME  AND    SONG.       . 
SEA    AND    LAND. 

THE    GOLDEN    VERSES    OF    PYTHAGOKA; 
THE    MOST    WELCOME    SEASON.       . 
A    LAMENT    FOR    BISHOP    ANDREWS. 
THE    TWO    FISHERMEN. 

THE    DISTAFF 

HERCULES  AND  HTLAS. 

THE  BARD  OF  O'CONNOR.  . 

A    SOLDIER'S    TALE   OF   LOVE. 

A    TONGUE   FOR   HIRE. 

THE   FLOWER   OF    LEZATEE. 

THE   SWEDISH    CECILIA'S   FAREWELL. 


105 


112 
12(> 
122 
123 
128 
130 
134 
139 
141 
146 
148 
160 
153 
156 


ADVERTISEMENT 


The  Christian  Songs,  published  in  Philadelphia  some  years 
ago,  are  all  contained  in  this  volume,  together  with  eight  sacred, 
and  fifteen  other  poems,  not  included  in  the  last. 


West  Haverford, 
Pennsylvania. 

November,  1860. 


CHRISTIAN  SONGS. 


SING    WITH    THE     HARP.' 


MixstPwEL,  my  spirit  is  sorely  dejected  ; 
Take  down  thy  harp  from  its  place  on  the  wall ; — 
Long  has  it  slumber'd  untund  and  neglected, 
Long  has  its  voice  been  unheard  in  the  hall : 
Tyrants  have  triumph'd,  and  all  have  consented, 
Orphans  are  wrong'd,  and  the  spoiler  is  glad, 
Just  men  have  perislrd,  and  none  have  lamented :- 
Marvel  not  thou  that  mv  bosom  is  sad. 


Teach  thou  the  sorrowing  chords  to  awaken 
Thoughts  of  the  dead,  who  for  ages  have  slept, 
Martyrs  that  shrank  not  though  scorn'd  and  forsaken.- 
Bards  whom  the  people  have  honour'd  and  wept : — 
Harp  thou  of  heroes,  the  valiant,  the  chainless, 
Bleeding  for  rights  which  the  weak  have  bet  ray  VI ; 
Sing  thou  of  Goodness,  the  lowly,  the  stainless, 
Burning  her  incense  unpriz'd  in  the  shade. 


10  SING  WITH   THE   HARP. 

When  thou  hast  told  of  the  lost  and  the  dying, 
Bid  thou  thy  strain  of  lamenting  to  cease ; — 
Sing  thou  of  Him,  on  whose  promise  relying 
Guilt  may  have  pardon,  despair  may  have  peace : 
Sound  thou  of  worlds,  where  the  seraph  is  sweeping 
Harpstrings  unworn  by  the  war-notes  of  men ; 
Lands  of  delight,  where  no  mourner  is  weeping ; — 
So  shall  my  spirit  be  tranquil  again. 


II 


THE  TRIUMPHS  OF  OUR  LANGUAGE 


Now  gather  all  our  Saxon  bards; 

Let  harps  and  hearts  be  strung, 
To  celebrate  the  triumphs 

Of  our  own  good  Saxon  tongue ; 
For,  stronger  far  than  hosts  that  march 

With  battle-flags  unfurl'd, 
It  goes  with  Freedom,  Thought,  and  Truth, 

To  rouse  and  rule  the  world. 

Stout  Albion  learns  its  household  lays 

On  every  surf- worn  shore, 
And  Scotland  hears  it  echoing  far, 

As  Orkney's  breakers  roar : 
From  Jura's  crags  and  Mona's  hills 

It  floats  on  every  gale, 
And  warms,  with  eloquence  and  song, 

The  homes  of  Innisfail. 


12  THE   TRIUMPHS    OF   OUR   LANGUAGE, 

On  many  a  wide  and  swarming  deck, 

It  scales  the  rough  wave's  crest, 
Seeking  its  peerless  heritage, 

The  fresh  and  fruitful  West : 
It  climbs  New  England's  forest  steeps, 

As  victor  mounts  a  throne ; 
Niagara  knows  and  greets  the  voice, 

Still  mightier  than  his  own. 

It  spreads  where  Winter  piles  deep  snows 

On  bleak  Canadian  plains, 
And  where,  on  Essequibo's  banks, 

Eternal  Summer  reigns : 
It  glads  Acadia's  misty  coasts, 

Jamaica's  glowing  isle, 
And  bides  where,  gay  with  early  flowers, 

Green  Texan  prairies  smile. 


It  lives  by  clear  Itasca's  lake, 

Missouri's  turbid  stream, 
Where  cedars  rise  on  wild  Ozark, 

And  Kansas'  waters  gleam: 
It  tracks  the  loud  swift  Oregon, 

Through  sunset  valleys  roll'd, 
And  soars  where  Californian  brooks 

Wash  down  their  sands  of  sold. 


THE   TRIUMPHS   OF   OUR   LANGUAGE.  13 

It  sounds  in  Borneo's  camphor-groves, 

On  seas  of  fierce  Mal&y, 
In  fields  that  curb  old  Ganges'  flood, 

And  towers  of  proud  Bombay  : 
It  wakes  up  Aden's  flashing  eyes, 

Dusk  brows,  and  swarthy  limbs  ; 
The  dark  Liberian  soothes  her  child 

With  English  cradle-hymns. 

Tasmania's  maids  are  wooed  and  won 

In  gentle  Saxon  speech ; 
Australian  boys  read  Crusoe's  life 

By  Sydney's  shelter'd  beach  : 
It  dwells  where  Afric's  southmost  capes 

Meet  oceans  broad  and  blue, 
And  Nieuveld's  ragged  mountains  gird 

The  wide  and  waste  Karroo. 

It  kindles  realms  so  far  apart, 

That,  while  its  praise  you  sing, 
These  may  be  clad  with  Autumn's  fruits, 

And  those  with  flowers  of  Spring : 
It  quickens  lands  whose  meteor  lights 

Flame  in  an  Arctic  sky, 
And  lands  for  which  the  Southern  Cross 

Hangs  its  orb'd  fires  on  high. 


14  THE   TRIUMPHS   OF   OUR   LANGUAGE. 

It  goes  with  all  that  prophets  told, 

And  righteous  kings  desir'd, 
With  all  that  great  apostles  taught, 

And  glorious  Greeks  aclmir'd, 
With  Shakspeare's  deep  and  wondrous  verse, 

And  Milton's  lofty  mind, 
With  Alfred's  laws,  and  Newton's  lore, 

To  cheer  and  bless  mankind. 


Mark,  as  it  spreads,  how  deserts  bloom, 

And  error  flees  away, 
As  vanishes  the  mist  of  night 

Before  the  star  of  day : 
But,  grand  as  are  the  victories 

Whose  monuments  we  see, 
These  are  but  as  the  dawn  which  speaks 

Of  noontide  yet  to  be. 

Take  heed,  then,  heirs  of  Saxon  fame, 

Take  heed,  nor  once  disgrace, 
With  deadly  pen,  or  spoiling  sword, 

Our  noble  tongue  and  race : 
Go  forth  prepar'd,  in  every  clime, 

To  love  and  help  each  other, 
And  judge  that  they,  who  counsel  strife, 

Would  bid  you  smite — a  brother. 


THE   TRIUMPHS   OF   OUR   LANGUAGE.  15 

Go  forth,  and  jointly  speed  the  time, 

By  good  men  pray'd  for  long, 
When  Christian  States,  grown  just  and  wise, 

Will  scorn  revenge  and  wrong ; 
When  Earth's  oppress'd  and  savage  tribes 

Shall  cease  to  pine  or  roam, 
All  taught  to  prize  these  English  words, 

Faith,  Freedom,  Heaven,  and  Home. 


16 


A    WELCOME    SACKIFICE. 


Vain  is  the  blood  of  rare  and  spotless  herds 
Pastur'd  in  meads  where  blue  Clitumnus  shines, 
Yain  are  sweet  gums  from  lands  that  Indus  girds, 
Or  diamonds  sought  in  deep  Brazilian  mines, 
Yain  are  Iberian  fruits,  and  perfum'd  flowers 
Eicli  as  a  Grecian  sunset's  purest  dyes, 
If  deem'cl,  when  worship  claims  thy  holiest  liours, 
For  him  in  Heaven  fit  gift  or  sacrifice. 

The  flocks  that  roam  on  thrice  ten  thousand  hills, 
Each  living  thing  that  moves  on  shore  and  sea, 
The  gems  and  gold  which  gleam  in  caves  and  rills, 
Saba's  low  shrub,  and  Lebanon's  tall  tree, 
The  fragrant  tribes  that  spring  on  cliff  and  field, 
That  flush  the  stream,  or  fringe  the  smooth  lake's  brim, 
Breathe,  burn,  and  bloom,  at  His  high  will  reveal'd, 
And  own  with  joy  their  Light  and  Lord  in  Him. 


A   WELCOME   SACRIFICE.  17 

Our  gains  arc  His,  and,  laid  before  the  Cross, 

These  must  of  our  oblations  form  a  part, 

But  oh !  the  choicest  ores  and  gems  are  dross, 

If  brought  without  that  pearl  of  price — the  heart. 

The  poorest  serf  who  fears  a  tyrant's  nod, 

"Whose  inmost  soul  hard  bondage  racks  and  wrings — 

That  toil-worn  slave  may  send  unseen  to  God 

An  offering  far  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings. 

Come  thou  with  breast  from  pride  and  passion  freed, 
Hands  which  no  stain  of  guilt  has  ever  soil'd, 
Feet  swift  and  strong  for  every  gentle  deed, 
Faith,  hope,  and  truth,  by  sordid  crowds  unspoil'd; 
Come  with  a  spirit  full  of  generous  love 
For  all  beyond,  and  all  below  the  skies : — 
Make  ready  thou,  for  Him  who  reigns  above, 
The  Christian's  gift — A  living  sacrifice. 


18 


THE    BLEST    OF    EAKTH 


Thou  sbalt  not  call  him  blest, 
Though  born  to  bigb  command, 
Who  sees  among  bis  slaves 
Tbe  nobles  of  bis  land ; 
Tbougb  banners  bear  bis  name 
On  many  a  sbining  fold, 
Thougb  sparkling  gems  are  bis, 
And  ruddy  piles  of  gold. 

Tbou  sbalt  not  call  him  blest, 
In  lofty  wisdom  sage, 
Whose  searcbing  eye  bas  read 
Creation's  boundless  page  ;    • 
Wbo  gathers  round  bis  hearth 
The  wise  of  ancient  days  ; 
Whose  words  the  learn 'd  and  great 
Of  other  times  shall  praise. 


THE   BLEST   OF   EAKTH.  19 

But  thou  shalt  call  him  blest, 
Though  all  unknown  to  fame, 
Whose  righteous  works  adorn 
The  Christian's  sacred  name  ; 
Who  loves  the  toilsome  path, 
That  high  Apostles  trod ; 
Who  keeps,  with  humble  faith, 
The  just  decrees  of  God. 


20 


A     CHILD    AT    PLAY 


A  eosy  child  went  forth  to  play, 
In  the  first  flush  of  hope  and  pride, 
Where  sands  in  silver  beauty  lay, 
Made  smooth  by  the  retreating  tide ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  trackless  waste, 
Whence  ebb'd  the  waters  many  a  mile, 
He  rais'd,  in  hot  and  trembling  haste, 
Arch,  wall,  and  tower, — a  goodly  pile. 

But,  when  the  shades  of  evening  fell, 
Veiling  the  blue  and  peaceful  deep, 
The  tolling  of  the  vesper  bell 
Call'd  that  boy  builder  home  to  sleep  :- 
He  pass'cl  a  long  and  restless  night, 
Dreaming  of  structures  tall  and  fair  ; — 
He  came  with  the  returning  light, 
And  lo,  the  faithless  sands  were  bare. 


A   CHILD  AT  PLAY.  21 

Less  "wise  than  that  unthinking  child. 
Are  those  deem'd  great  of  mortal  birth. 
Who  grasp,  with  strivings  warm  and  wild. 
The  false  and  fading  toys  of  Earth. 
Gold,  learning,  glory  ! — What  are  they 
Without  the  faith  that  looks  on  high  ? 
The  sand  forts  of  a  child  at  play, 
Which  are  not  when  the  wave  goes  by. 


22 


THE    NOBLE    MAEINER 


When  the  ship  Ocean  Monarch  was  burned  off  Liverpool,  on  the 
24th  of  August,  1848,  Frederick  Jerome  of  New  York  saved  the  lives 
of  fifteen  passengers,  who  must  otherwise  have  perished. 

Shout  the  noble  seaman's  name, 
Deeds  like  his  belong  to  fame : 
Cottage  roof  and  kingly  dome, 
Sound  the  praise  of  brave  Jerome. 
Let  his  acts  be  told  and  sung, 
"While  his  own  high  Saxon  tongue, 
Herald  meet  for  worth  sublime, 
Peals  from  conquer'd  clime  to  clime. 

Madly  roll'd  the  giant  wreck, 
Fiercely  blaz'd  the  riven  deck, 
Thick  and  fast  as  falling  stars, 
Crash'd  the  naming  blocks  and  spars ; 
Loud  as  surf,  when  winds  are  strong, 
Wail'd  the  scorch'd  and  stricken  throng, 
Gazing  on  a  rugged  shore, 
Fires  behind,  and  seas  before. 


THE   XOBLE   MARIXER.  23 

On  the  charr'd  and  reeling  prow, 
Eeft  of  hope,  they  gather  now  : 
Finding,  one  by  one,  a  grave, 
In  the  vex'd  and  sullen  wave : 
Here  the  child,  as  if  in  sleep, 
Floats  on  waters  dark  and  deep ; 
There  the  mother  sinks  below, 
Shrieking  in  her  mighty  woe. 

Britons,  quick  to  strive  or  feel, 
Join'd  with  chiefs  of  rich  Brazil : 
Western  freemen,  prompt  to  dare, 
Side  by  side  with  Bourbon's  heir ; 
Proving  who  could  then  excel, 
Come  with  succour  long  and  well ; 
But  Jerome,  in  peril  nurs'd, 
Shone  among  the  foremost — First. 

Through  the  reddend  surge  and  spray, 
Fast  he  cleaves  his  troubled  way ; 
Boldly  climbs  and  stoutly  clings, 
On  the  smoking  timber  springs ; 
Fronts  the  flames,  nor  fears  to  stand 
In  that  lorn  and  weeping  band ; 
Looks  on  death,  nor  tries  to  shun, 
Till  his  work  of  love  is  done. 


2-i  THE   NOBLE   MARINER. 

Glorious  man  ! — immortal  work  ! 
Claim  thy  hero,  proud  New  York ; 
Harp  of  Mm  when  feasts  are  spread, 
Tomb  liim  with,  thy  valiant  dead. 
\Yho,  that,  bent  on  just  renown, 
Seeks  a  Christian's  prize  and  crown, 
Would  not  spurn  whole  years  of  life, 
For  one  hour  of  such  a  strife  ? 


20 


JESUS    WALKING    OX    THE     SEA. 


The  rough  winds  were  warring  on  broad  Galilee, 
And  the  fathomless  waters  roll'd  foaming  and  free, 
The  strong  blasts  of  Hermon  came  down  in  their  might, 
And  the  palms  of  Manasseh  were  bow'd  on  their  height ; 

But  no  refuge  was  near  for  the  perishing  bark, 

When  the  breakers  were  loud,  and  the  surges  were  dark:- 

The  storm  was  about  with  its  riot  and  din, 

And  the  mourners  of  Judah  sat  weeping  within. 

Through  the  rack  of  the  tempest,  the  mist  of  the  wave, 

A  wakeful  Preserver  came  hasting  to  save : — 

The  turbulent  waters  rejoic'd  as  He  trod, 

And  the  lightnings  ruslrd  thronging  to  welcome  their  God 

He  spake,  and  the  blue  depth  lay  shining  and  still, 
The  voice  of  the  cedars  was  hush'd  on  the  hill ; 
The  billow  slept  radiant  with  stars  on  the  shore, 
And  the  revelling  thunders  were  dreadful  no  more. 

3 


26 


RELIGION    IN    YOUTH 


If  thou  dost  truly  seek  to  live 
With  all  the  jo}*s  that  life  can  give ; 
If  thy  young  feet  would  gladly  press 
The  ways  of  peace  and  happiness ; 

Go  thou,  with  fresh  and  fervent  love, 
To  Him  who  dwells  in  light  above, 
Who  sees  ten  thousand  suns  obey, 
Yet  listens  when  the  lowly  pray. 

Cling  thou  to  Jesus  faithfully, 
As  vines  embrace  their  guardian  tree ; 
Nor  shame  thy  pure  and  lofty  creed, 
Be  His  in  thought,  and  word,  and  deed ; 

And  thou  shalt  breathe  in  this  low  world, 
An  eagle  chainxl,  with  wings  unfurl'd, 
Prepard,  when  once  thy  bonds  are  riven, 
To  soar  away,  and  flee  to  Heaven. 


27 


THE  HEROINE  MARTYR  OF  MONTEREY. 


When  the  American  forces  under  General  Taylor  stormed  Monterey, 
on  the  21st,  22nd,  and  23rd  of  September,  1846,  a  Mexican  woman 
was  seen  going  about  among  the  disabled  of  both  armies,  binding  up 
their  wounds,  and  supplying  them  with  food  and  water.  While 
thus  employed  she  fell.  She  was  on  the  following  day  buried  by  the 
Americans,  who  had  even  then  to  bear  an  incessant  discharge  of  shot 
from  the  Mexican  batteries. 

The  strife  was  stern  at  Monterey, 

When  those  high  towers  were  lost  and  won ; 

And,  pealing  through  that  mortal  fray, 

Flash'd  the  strong  battery's  vengeful  gun ; 

Yet,  heedless  of  its  deadly  rain, 

She  stood  in  toil  and  danger  first, 

To  bind  the  bleeding  soldier's  vein, 

And  slake  the  dying  soldier's  thirst. 


28     THE  HEROINE  MARTYR  OF  MONTEREY. 

She  found  a  pale  and  stricken  foe 
Sinking  in  nature's  last  eclipse, 
And,  on  the  red  earth  kneeling  low, 
She  wet  his  parch'd  and  fever'd  lips ; 
When,  thick  as  winter's  driving  sleet, 
The  booming  shot,  and  flaming  shell, 
Swept  with  wild  rage  that  gory  street, 
And  she — the  good  and  gentle — fell. 

They  laid  her  in  a  narrow  bed — 

The  foemen  of  her  land  and  race  ; 

And  sighs  were  breath'd,  and  tears  were  shed, 

Above  that  lowly  resting-place  : — 

Ay  !  Glory's  crimson  worshippers 

Wept  over  her  untimely  fall, 

For  deeds  of  mercy,  such  as  hers, 

Subdue  the  hearts  and  eyes  of  all. 

To  sound  her  worth  were  guilt  and  shame 
In  us,  who  love  but  gold  and  ease  : — 
They  heed  alike  our  praise  or  blame, 
Who  live  and  die  in  works  like  these. 
Far  greater  than  the  wise  or  brave, 
Far  happier  than  the  fair  and  gay, 
Was  she,  who  found  a  martyr's  grave 
On  that  red  field  of  Monterey. 


29 


THE  BLOOMING  OF  VIOLETS 


Ay  !  cast  those  gloomy  thoughts  aside, 

The  genial  Spring  is  here  ; — 
She  comes  with  all  her  violets 

To  bless  another  year : — 
Lo,  rising  at  her  welcome  voice, 

They  steal  in  gladness  out, 
And,  wish'd  for  long,  the  light  warm  south 

Is  harping  all  about. 

By  garden  walk  and  rustic  fence, 

Fair  bush  and  rude  gray  stone, 
They  laugh  among  the  leaves  and  grass, 

In  purple  clusters  strown : — 
Retiring  from  the  gaze  of  men, 

They  lurk,  a  bashful  race, 
But  every  breeze,  that  wanders  by, 

Reveals  their  hiding-place. 


30  THE   BLOOMING   OF   VIOLETS. 

While,  heedless  of  their  own  sweet  worth, 

They  quaff  the  shining  dew, 
Or  catch,  from  God's  eternal  arch, 

Its  deep  and  stainless  blue, 
Go,  mark  thou  well  the  scents  and  dyes, 

To  them  so  freely  given, 
And  own  that  weak  and  lowly  things 

Are  yet  most  loved  of  Heaven. 

Then  drop  this  weary  load  of  care, 

Be  meekly  glad  as  they, 
JSTor  fear  to  live  like  them  unseen, 

To  pass  unseen  away : — 
Learn  thou  with  joy  to  stand  or  fall, 

Where  sacred  duty  leads, 
And  prize,  above  renown  or  gold, 

Pure  faith  and  holy  deeds. 


31 


THE    EETUEN    TO    LEZAYRE 


Lezayre  is  the  name  of  a  beautiful  district  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 

I  came  to  the  place  where  my  childhood  had  dwelt, 
To  the  hearth  where  in  early  devotion  I  knelt ; — 
The  fern  and  the  bramble  grew  wild  in  the  hall, 
And  the  long  grass  of  summer  wav'd  green  on  the  wall : 
The  roof-tree  was  fallen,  the  household  had  fled, 
The  garden  was  ruin'd,  the  roses  were  dead, 
The  wild  bird  flew  scar'd  from  her  desolate  stone, 
And  I  breath 'd  in  the  home  of  my  boyhood — alone. 

That  moment  is  past,  but  it  left  on  my  heart 

A  remembrance  of  sadness  which  will  not  depart ; — 

I  have  wander 'd  afar  since  that  sorrowful  day, 

I  have  wept  with  the  mournful,  and  laugh 'd  with  the  gay : 

I  have  lived  with  the  stranger,  and  drank  of  the  rills, 

Which  go  warbling  their  music  on  loftier  hills ; 

But  I  never  forgot,  in  rejoicing  or  care, 

That  mouldering  hearth,  and  those  hills  of  Lezayre. 


32  THE   RETURN   TO  LEZAYRE. 

Yet  droop  not,  my  spirit,  nor  hopelessly  mourn 
Over  ills  which  the  best  and  the  wisest  have  borne: — 
Though  the  greetings  of  love,  and  the  voices  of  mirth 
May  for  ever  be  hush'd  in  the  homesteads  of  Earth ; 
Though  the  dreams  and  the  dwellings  of  childhood  decay 
And  the  friends  whom  we  cherish  go  hasting  away, 
No  young  hopes  are  scatter'd,  no  heart-strings  are  riven, 
No  partings  are  known  in  the  households  of  Heaven. 


33 


A    KING'S    MEMORIAL. 


The  grave  of  Mac  Tiiuil,  King  of  Imail,  may  be  seen  at  Grlendar 
luugh,  a  well-known  valley  of  Ireland  surrounded  by  the  WIcklow 
mountains.  It  lies  neglected  beside  a  ruined  Church,  and  is  covered 
with  a  rough  stone  bearing  this  inscription: — "Behold  the  besting 

PLACE  OF  THE  BODY  OF  KlXG  MAC  ThLIL,    WHO  DIED  IN  JESDS,  1010." 

The  place  is  wild  and  desolate, 

Which  holds  a  monarch's  dust ; 

No  pyramid  stands  proudly  there, 

No  column,  urn,  or  bust : — 

He  sleeps  where  ruins  strow  the  ground, 

Within  a  sunless  vale, 

The  chief  who  led,  in  days  long  past, 

The  tribes  of  broad  Imail. 

He  reign'd  where  glad  Ovoca  rolls 

Its  waters  calm  and  pure  ; 

He  chas'd  the  red  deer  up  the  rocks 

Of  misty  Glenmalure  ; 

For  him  brave  clansmen  drew  their  swords, 

And  minstrels  wak'd  their  strains, 

But  wealth,  strength,  power  and  song  have  fled : 

His  tomb  alone  remains. 


u 


His  tomb  ? — One  moss'd  and  mouldering  stone, 

From  Erin's  mountains  rent, 

Lies  hidden  in  the  tall  rank  weeds, 

His  earthly  monument : — 

Go  thou,  who  scornest  paths  of  peace, 

Eesolv'd  to  shine  or  rule, 

And  look  on  that  last  heritage, 

That  house  of  king  Mac  Thuil. 


D 


Yet,  ere  thou  turn  thine  e}^es  away, 

Or  hasten  to  depart, 

Take  thou  this  truth  from  Glenclalough, 

And  write  it  on  thy  heart : 

"  Years  as  they  fleet,  make  spoil  of  all, 

That  proud  men  seek  or  prize, 

But  nought  shall  tear  the  crown  from  him 

Who  blest  in  Jesus  dies." 


35 


THE    STORMS   AND   STARS   OF    MARCH. 


Harsh  is  the  voice,  and  loud  the  war 

Of  storms  in  that  ungenial  time, 
When,  leaving  southern  lands  afar, 

The  Sun  wakes  up  our  northern  clime 
The  long  white  surges  of  the  deep 

Then  break  on  every  wailing  shore, 
And,  foaming  down  each  rifted  steep, 

The  mountain  torrents  rage  and  roar. 


Like  rapiers  driven  with  vengeful  thrust, 

On  breast  and  brow  the  cold  winds  beat, 
And  rushing  hail,  or  troubled  dust, 

Sweeps  the  rough  road  and  echoing  street 
The  groaning  woods  are  bleak  and  bare, 

The  violet  slumbers  yet  unseen, 
And  those  wide  fields  and  pastures  wear 

No  welcome  tint  of  early  green. 


36  THE    STORMS   AND   STARS   OF   MARCH. 

But  God,  with  all  a  Father's  love, 

When  earth  thus  reft  of  beauty  lies, 
Keveals,  in  blazing  pomp  above, 

The  wonders  of  his  radiant  skies : — 
Look  thou  on  Night's  refulgent  arch, 

When  that  rude  hour  thy  gladness  mars, 
And  thou  shalt  find,  in  raging  March, 

The  month  at  once  of  storms  and  stars. 


For  lo,  the  great  Orion  burns, 

Descending  in  the  cloudless  west, 
And  red  Arcturus  now  returns, 

Beaming  at  eve,  a  sacred  guest : 
Far  up,  in  circles  broad  and  bright, 

The  Bear  and  Lion  move  and  shine, 
While  Sirius  lifts  his  orb  of  light, 

And  fills  our  hearts  with  thoughts  divine. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  when  storms  arise, 

And  all  is  dark  and  joyless  here, 
He  sets  before  our  longing  eyes 

The  glories  of  that  lofty  sphere  : — 
When  sorely  tried  we  grieve  alone, 

Or  sink  beneath  oppression's  rod, 
He  whispers,  from  His  starry  throne, 

"Look  up,  0  man,  and  trust  in  God.*' 


37 


THOU  AKT  GONE  TO  THE  SHORES 
OF  THE  SERAPH'S  LAND. 


A  tribute  to  the  virtues  and  genius  of  the  Rev.  Benjamin  Davis  Winslow. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  shores  of  the  seraph's  land, 

To  the  sacred  place  of  the  righteous  band ; 

Thou  hast  fled  afar,  like  some  forest  bird 

When  the  leaves  of  her  dwelling  are  rudely  stirr'd ; 

Thy  lyre  has  dust  on  its  ruin'd  string, 

Thy  bride  is  sad  in  her  flowery  spring, 

Thy  foot — unseen  on  the  temple  floor, 

Thy  voice — unheard  at  the  poor  man's  door. 

Young  Soldier  of  Truth,  thou  didst  raise  thy  shield, 
With  its  blood-red  Cross,  on  a  stormy  field ; 
Thou  didst  look  unmov'd  on  the  banner'd  throng, 
When  the  friend  was  cold,  and  the  foe  was  strong ; 
In  the  front  of  the  battle  we  saw  thee  stand, 
With  a  fearless  heart,  and  a  forward  hand ; 
We  did  hope  that  the  glories  of  coming  years 
Would  cluster  about  thee : — we  thought  not  of  tears. 


o»  THOU   ART   GONE. 

But  go : — it  was  better  to  die  thus  young, 
When  thy  praise  was  loud  upon  every  tongue ; 
It  was  happier  far  than  to  linger  on, 
Till  the  bloom  and  freshness  of  life  were  gone : 
Since  the  seal  was  set  on  thy  noble  brow, 
Thou  hast  kept  thy  promise,  and  paid  thy  vow, 
And,  when  suns  and  systems  shall  fade  and  fall, 
Those  works  of  thine  shall  outlive  them  all. 


39 


THE  REJOICING  OF   THE    VALIANT. 


The   scene   described   in  these   lines    occurred  in   the   memorable 
retreat  of  the  Greeks,  after  the  battle  of  Cunaxa. 

In  many  a  conflict  worn  and  spent, 

A  fearless  though  forsaken  band 

Of  twice  five  thousand  soldiers  went, 

Treading  a  strange  and  hostile  land : 

From  far  Cunaxa 's  reeking  field, 

To  the  dark  Euxine's  briny  flood, 

They  march'd  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield, 

Winning  each  league  by  toil  and  blood. 

They  climb'd  a  steep  and  rugged  peak, 
The  tallest  of  a  lofty  chain, 
Still  unsubdued,  though  sad  and  weak 
With,  half  their  number  lost  or  slain, 
When  loud  and  wild  a  thrilling  cry 
Comes  rolling  from  the  distant  van  : — 
Do  foemen  lurk  in  ambush  nigh  ? 
Are  warriors  charging  man  to  man  ? 


40  THE   KEJOICIXG   OF   THE   VALIANT. 

"The  sea!"  "the  sea!" — At  those  glad  words, 

Each  swift  to  gain  the  foremost  rank, 

The  spearmen  rnsh'd,  as  thirsting  herds 

Go  bounding  to  the  river's  bank  ; — 

They  came,  like  dusky  vapours  roll'd 

In  masses  by  the  raging  blast, 

And  gazed — on  that  broad  sea  which  told 

Of  glory  won,  and  danger  past. 

Christian,  thy  way  like  theirs  may  lie 
*  Through  many  a  scene  of  strife  and  woe, 
And  every  point  that  meets  thine  eye 
May  hold  a  stern  and  watchful  foe ; — 
Yet  droop  thou  not,  nor  ever  leave 
The  post  which  God  assigns  to  thee : 
Valour  and  truth  at  last  receive 
The  sweet  rewards  of  victor  v. 


41 


A    CHKISTIAN'S    LIFE 


He  envied  not  the  pomp  and  power 
Of  kings  in  their  triumphant  hour, 
The  deeds  that  win  a  lofty  name, 
The  songs  that  orive  to  bards  their  fame. 


He  sigh'd  not  for  the  gold  that  shines 
In  Guinea's  brooks,  in  Ophir's  mines ; 
He  stood  not  at  the  festivals 
Of  nobles  in  their  gorgeous  halls. 


He  walk'd  on  Earth,  as  wood-streams  pass 
Conceal'd  beneath  the  freshen'd  grass ; — 
His  were  pure  thoughts,  and  humble  faith, 
A  blameless  life,  and  tranquil  death. 

He  kept,  in  days  of  strife  and  wrath, 

The  Christian's  straight  and  narrow  path  ; — 

But  weep  thou  not : — we  must  not  weep, 

When  they,  who  rest  in  Jesus,  sleep. 
4 


42 


THE    MOUNTAIN    WIND. 


The  local  allusions  in  this  song  make  it  necessary  to  state  that  it 
was  written  in  Scotland,  after  visiting  the  mountain  scenery  round 
Castletown  of  Braemar. 

Blast  of  the  mountain,  the  strongest,  the  fleetest, 
Sounding  at  eve  in  the  pines  of  Braemar, — 
Breeze  of  the  desert,  the  purest,  the  sweetest, 
Warbling  alone  on  the  moorlands  afar, — 
Hasten  full  soon  from  the  fields  of  thy  freedom, 
Play  round  my  bosom,  and  steal  o'er  my  brow ; — 
Harp-strings  of  Morven,  and  perfumes  of  Edom, 
Bring  not  my  spirit  such  gladness  as  thou. 

Come  from  the  brake  where  the  wild  bird  is  singing, 
Come  from  the  fresh  bank  that  gladdens  the  bee, 
Come  from  the  cliff  where  the  blue-bell  is  springing, 
Hidden  from  all  but  the  sunbeam  and  thee ; — 
Eise  in  thy  strength  from  the  vale  of  thy  slumbers ; 
Waken  ! — my  spirit  has  pined  for  thee  long ; — 
Oh  for  the  music  that  swells  in  thy  numbers ! 
Oh  for  the  wildness  that  breathes  in  thy  song! 


THE   MOUNTAIN   WIND.  43 

"Welcome,  sweet  playmate  and  friend  of  my  childhood ! 
Thou  art  the  same  that  I  loved  in  my  youth ; — 
Others  were  false  as  those  leaves  in  the  wild  wood, 
Thou  still  retainest  thy  freshness  and  truth ; — 
Thou  still  rejoicest,  in  melody  roaming 
Through  the  long  fern,  where  the  dew-spangles  gleam : 
Thou,  when  the  swift  brooks  are  turbidly  foaming, 
Dashest  the  spray  from  the  vex'd  mountain  stream. 

Bard  of  the  hill,  when  thy  harping  is  loudest, 
Bid  me  not  think  with  the  tyrant  or  slave ; 
Teach  me  to  strive  with  the  worst  and  the  proudest, 
Fearless,  as  thou  with  steep  Garval's  dark  wave ; — 
Teach  me  to  rise  with  a  lofty  devotion, 
Pure,  as  thou  rovest  the  blossoming  sod, 
Sweeping  the  chords  with  a  sacred  emotion, 
Singing  of  Teuth,  and  Bedemption,  and  God. 


44 


TRUST    NOT    IN    MAN 


"Cursed  be  the  man  that  trusteth  in  man." 

Thou  bast  spoken  of  glories  above, 
Of  freedom,  and  friendship,  and  love ; — 
In  the  former  the  wise  must  believe, 
But  the  latter  are — sounds  which  deceive. 

They  are  names,  as  thou  sadly  shalt  know, 
Of  delights  which  endure  not  below ; 
They  are  idle  as  words,  which  the  hand 
Of  a  stripling  has  traced  on  the  sand. 

Thy  days  yet  to  come  may  seem  fair, 
With  no  shade  of  deceit  or  despair ; 
Strange  light  on  thy  pathway  may  shine, 
Great  thoughts  and  high  hopes  may  be  thine. 

But  false  as  the  vapours  that  sleep, 
Like  islands,  afar  on  the  deep, 
Are  the  phantoms  of  goodness  and  truth, 
Which  are  seen  in  the  visions  of  youth. 


TKUST   NOT   IN    MAX.  45 

Beware  then,  and  place  not  thy  trust 
In  those  that  are  form'd  out  of  dust : 
They  are  feeble,  and  faithless,  and  vain ; — 
Dream  not  that  their  smiles  will  remain. 


They  are  friends  whom  misfortune  will  change, 
Whom  distance  or  years  will  estrange ; — 
They  will  flatter  yet  fail  in  thy  need : — 
Trust  Him  "that  is  faithful"  indeed. 


46 


THE    WELCOME    LAND. 


Once,  on  a  fresh  and  fragrant  eve, 
I  wander 'd  up  an  island  steep  ; — 
The  tints,  which  rosy  sunsets  leave, 
Lay  purple  on  the  heaving  deep ; — 
A  day  of  tempest  dark  and  stern 
Was  closing  in  an  hour  as  bright, 
As  ever  gemm'd  the  summer  fern, 
Or  turn'd  the  mountain  streams  to  light. 


Unmindful  of  the  breakers'  war 
That  raged  along  the  lonely  strand, 
I  watch'd  beyond  the  waves  afar 
The  steep  hills  of  my  own  green  land : 
Long  had  I  chas'd  them  o'er  the  sea, 
By  surge  and  tempest  toss'd  and  driven, 
And  there  they  rose  to  welcome  me, 
Cloth'd  in  the  fairest  hues  of  heaven. 


THE  WELCOME   LAND.  47 

Heir  of  eternal  life,  be  strong, 
Nor  in  thy  darkest  hour  repine  : 
Though  pain  and  sorrow  chase  thee  long, 
A  land  more  beauteous  far  is  thine : — 
Ay  !  though  thou  fall,  unwept,  unblest, 
Thy  monument  a  blasted  sod, 
Thine  is  the  Christian's  pleasant  rest, 
Thine  are  the  radiant  courts  of  God. 


48 


A    GRAVE    IN    THE     OZAEKS. 


A  young  Englishman  of  great  worth  died,  as  here  described,  among 
the  Ozark  mountains  in  Missouri. 


Low  on  a  forest  bed 
A  weary  pilgrim  lay ; 
A  fever  scorch'd  his  brow, 
His  home  was  far  away : 
September  trod  in  light 
The  blue  Missourian  sky, 
When  that  sad  wanderer  sought 
The  red  man's  hut — to  die. 

He  cross'd  the  surging  deep 

From  England's  noble  shore, 

To  learn  in  pathless  wilds 

The  forest's  secret  lore : 

He  climb'd  Ozark's  green  hills, 

Where  free  swarth  hunters  dwell ; — 

The  fatal  season  came, 

The  lonely  stranger  fell. 


A   GRAVE   IN   THE   OZARKS.  49 

As  Huron's  clear  wave  breaks, 
Hush'd  on  a  desert  strand, 
He  bow'd  his  head,  and  died 
In  that  far  mountain  land  : — 
His  sun  went  down  in  peace, 
He  felt  no  doubts  or  fears. 
For  he  had  kept  the  faith, 
From  boyhood's  happy  years. 

Beside  a  swift  dark  stream, 
The  woodman  dug  a  grave. 
"Where  dewy  blossoms  spring. 
And  dusky  branches  wave  : — 
On  that  sepulchral  turf 
No  breathing  marble  weeps, 
But  angels  know  the  place, 
Where  that  young  Christian  sleeps. 


50 


THE    TORRENT    OF    ARABIA 


The  mountains  of  Arabia  contain  numerous  springs,  which,  fed  by 
the  yearly  rains,  send  streams  of  water  through  the  valleys  that 
descend  towards  the  low  country.  Most  of  them,  however,  are  lost 
in  the  sand,  as  soon  as  they  enter  the  plain.  It  may  be  well  to  add 
that  an  Arabian  tent  is,  in  general,  black,  and  that  Ahkaf  is  the 
name  of  an  extensive  desert. 

All  foaming  down  its  native  hills 

The  torrent  of  Arabia  leaps, 

"When  showers  have  swell'd  its  fountain  rills, 

Far  up  the  blue  and  air  y  steeps : 

Like  some  chaf'd  steed  that  spurns  the  rein, 

In  raging  fulness  swift  and  free, 

It  rushes  to  the  fiery  plain, 

Bounding  to  reach  the  distant  sea. 


THE   TORREXT   OF   ARABIA.  51 

And  now  those  deep  cool  waters  glide 
Along  the  green  and  narrow  vale, 
Where  broad  trees  arch  the  crystal  tide, 
And  fragrance  breathes  in  every  gale : — 
The  dnsky  tent  and  flowery  slope 
Lie  mirror'd  in  that  wave  at  first, 
And  there  the  timid  antelope 
Oft  stoops  to  quench  her  noonday  thirst. 

But,  ere  the  wide  and  wild  expanse 
Of  Ahkaf's  burning  sand  is  cross'd, 
That  stream,  so  full  and  foaming  once, 
Sinks  on  its  rough  way  spent  and  lost : — 
Lost  in  its  sultry  wanderings, 
And  hush'd  in  an  eternal  sleep, 
It  wastes  unmark'd,  and  never  brings 
One  tribute  to  the  mighty  deep. 

"Weak  as  that  torrent's  failing  wave 
Art  thou  who,  born  for  Heaven  and  Truth, 
Hast  lived  a  false  world's  meanest  slave, 
Shaming  a  blest  and  glorious  youth  ; — 
Who,  vow'd  in  life's  first  happiest  day 
To  generous  faith  and  deeds  of  worth, 
Hast  fainted  on  thy  heavenward  way, 
Press'd  by  the  vain  low  cares  of  Earth. 


52 


THE    PEOPHETS 


Hast  tliou  look'd  on  the  worlds  which  are  shining  afar? 
Hast  thou  thought  of  a  land  where  the  sorrowless  are  ? 
Hast  thou  sigh'd  for  repose  in  some  region  of  bliss, 
When  assail'd  by  the  storms  and  the  dangers  of  this  ? 


'O 


Hast  thou  wept  at  thy  bondage,  and  long'd  to  be  free, 
When  the  proud  or  the  faithless  were  frowning  on  thee, 
When  the  sorrows  of  manhood  have  wasted  thy  cheek, 
When  thy  knowledge  was  vain,  and  thy  reason  was  weak? 

If  thou  hast,  thou  shalt  find  in  the  Prophets  reveal'd 
For  thy  soul  in  its  warfare  a  sword  and  a  shield, 
A  voice  from  The  Wisdom  that  angels  obey, 
A  promise  of  glories  which  pass  not  away. 

Thou  shalt  read  of  a  Victor  triumphantly  borne, 
In  the  march  of  whose  thousands  no  captive  shall  mourn ; 
A  King,  in  whose  mercy  the  faithful  shall  trust, 
When  the  trumpet  shall  call  them  to  rise  from  the  dust. 


53 


SOEEOW    TURNED   INTO   JOY." 


Yes  !  pain  and  care  have  left  too  soon 
A  blight  upon  thy  heart  and  brow, 
As  cold  winds  kill  the  leaves  of  June, 
Blasting  the  forest's  greenest  bough ; 


Yet,  breathe  thy  soul's  deep  grief  to  none, 
Nor  weep  that  earthly  joys  decay ; — 
Say  thou,  "my  God  !   Thy  will  be  done  :"- 
Night's  darkest  hour  is  lost  in  day. 

The  path  which  lies  through  toil  and  woe, 
The  path  which  saints  and  martyrs  trod, 
Though  rough  and  painful  here  below, 
Leads  upward  to  the  throne  of  God. 

Then  mail  anew  thy  stricken  breast, 
Be  firm  in  faith,  be  strong  in  love, 
And  thou  shalt  find  eternal  rest 
In  that  uu changing  world  above. 


54 


OH !  STEAL  NOT  THOU  MY  FAITH  AAV  AY 


Oh  !  steal  not  thou  my  faith  away, 
Nor  tempt  to  doubt  a  lowly  mind ; 
Make  all,  that  Earth  can  yield,  thy  prey, 
But  leave  this  heavenly  gift  behind : — 
Our  hope  is  but  the  seaboy's  dream 
When  loud  winds  rise  in  wrrath  and  gloom  ;- 
Our  life — a  faint  and  fitful  beam 
That  lights  us  to  the  cold  dark  tomb. 


LoJ 


Yet,  since,  as  One  from  Heaven  has  said, 
There  lies  beyond  that  dreary  bourn 
A  region,  where  the  faithful  dead 
Eternally  forget  to  mourn, 
AYelcome  the  scoff,  the  sword,  the  chain, 
The  burning  waste,  the  black  abyss ; 
I  shrink  not  from  the  path  of  pain, 
Which  leads  me  to  that  world  of  bliss. 


OH!    STEAL  NOT  THOU   MY   FAITn    AWAY.  55 

Then  hush,  thou  troubled  heart,  be  still ; — 

Renounce  thy  vain  philosophy  ; — 

Seek  thou  to  work  thy  Maker's  will, 

And  light  from  Heaven  shall  break  on  thee, 

To  glad  thee  in  the  weary  strife, 

Where  strong  men  sink  with  failing  breath ; — 

To  cheer  thee  in  the  noon  of  life, 

And  bless  thee  in  the  night  of  death. 


5Q 


IT    IS    FINISHED." 


It  is  fmish'd : — thy  dwellings,  0  Salem,  are  strown, 
Thy  daughters  are  weeping  in  exile  alone, 
The  lances  of  Judah  lie  wasted  with  rust, 
And  the  ramparts  of  Zion  are  laid  in  the  dust. 

The  Cedron  is  dyed  with  thy  gore  as  it  runs, 
The  torch  in  thy  temple,  the  chain  on  thy  sons ; 
The  blood  of  The  Guiltless  is  red  on  thy  brow, 
And  the  arm  which  upheld  thee  abandons  thee  now. 

It  is  fmish'd  : — the  work  of  Eedemption  is  done, 
The  combat  is  ended,  the  victory  won  ; 
The  spoiler  of  Eden  has  fled  from  the  field, 
The  portals  of  glory  stand  brightly  reveal'd  : 

The  toil  of  a  sinless  Redeemer  is  past, 
And  the  shout  of  the  Gentile  is  loud  on  the  blast ; — 
A  luminous  day  spring  has  dawn'd  on  his  night, 
And  "the  isles  of  the  heathen"  are  waking  in  light. 


57 


THE     FLO  WEES     OF    GOD. 


"Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field." 

The  welcome  flowers  are  blossoming, 

In  joyous  troops  reveal ?d  : — 
They  lift  their  dewy  buds  and  bells. 

In  garden,  mead,  and  field  : — 
They  lurk  in  every  sunless  path, 

Where  forest  children  tread  ; — 
They  dot,  like  stars,  the  sacred  turf, 

Which  lies  above  the  dead. 


They  sport  with  every  playful  wind, 
That  stirs  the  blooming  trees. 

And  laugh  on  every  fragrant  bush, 
All  full  of  toiling  bees  : — 

From  the  green  marge  of  lake  and  stream. 
Fresh  vale  and  mountain  sod, 

They  look  in  gentle  glory  forth — 

The  pure  sweet  flowers  of  God. 
5 


58  THE   FLOWERS   OF    GOD. 

They  come,  with  genial  airs  and  skies, 

In  summer's  golden  prime, 
And  to  the  stricken  world  give  back 

Lost  Eden's  blissful  clime : 
Outshining  Solomon  they  come, 

And  go  full  soon  away, 
But  yet,  like  him,  they  meekly  breathe 

True  wisdom,  while  they  stay. 

"  If  God,  they  whisper,  smiles  on  us, 

And  bids  us  bloom  and  shine, 
Does  He  not  mark,  0  faithless  man ! 

Each  wish  and  want  of  thine  ? 
Think,  too,  what  joys  await  in  Heaven 

The  blest  of  human  birth, 
When  rapture,  such  as  woos  thee  now, 

Can  reach  the  bad  on  earth  [" 


Kedeemer  of  a  fallen  race, 

Most  merciful  of  kings, 
Thy  hallow'd  words  have  cloth'd  with  power 

Those  frail  and  beauteous  things : — 
All  taught  by  Thee,  they  yearly  speak 

Their  message  of  deep  love, 
Bidding  us  fix,  for  life  and  death, 

Our  hearts  and  hopes  above. 


59 


BE  THOU,  OH  GOD,  MY  GUARD  AND  GUIDE, 


Be  thou,  Oh  God,  my  guard  and  guide, 
Where  proud  and  wrathful  men  abide ; 
Make  me,  as  Thou,  Eternal !  art, 
Eighteous  in  act,  and  pure  in  heart. 

When  doubts  or  stormy  passions  roll 
Thick  darkness  o'er  my  troubled  soul, 
Teach  Thou  my  trembling  lips  to  pray, 
Dash  Thou  the  rising  tear  away. 

When  struggling  in  the  dreary  strife 
Which  marks  the  fairest  path  of  life, 
Support  me  if  I  faint  or  fall, 
Eaise  Thou  thy  weeping  prodigal. 

Lord,  may  I  come  by  faith  at  last, 

When  this  world's  cares  and  toils  are  past, 

To  that  serene  and  happy  shore, 

Where  guilt  and  sorrow  wound  no  more. 


BE  THOU.  OH  GOD.  ^TY  GUARD  AXD  GUIDE. 

And  may  I,  in  that  world  of  bliss, 
Meet  all  the  friends  I  loved  in  this, 
The  sharers  of  my  hopes  and  fes    - 
The  deeply  loved  of  vanish'd  years. 

Be  mine  the  Christians  virtues,  Lord, 
Be  mine  the  Christian's  high  reward : 
A  spring  beam  on  a  Polar  sea. 
Thv  mercy,  God,  will  shine  on  me. 


61 


THE     TEMPEST     STILLED 


The  strong  wind  burst  on  Jmdah'fl  sea. 

Ear  peal'd  the  raging  billow. 
The  fires  of  heaven  nash'd  wrathfully, 

When  Jesus  press'd  his  pillow : 
The  light  frail  bark  was  fiercely  tofis'd 

From  surge  to  dark  surge  leaping, 
For  sails  were  torn  and  oars  were  lost, 

Yet  Jesus  still  lay  sleeping. 


When  o'er  that  bark  the  loud  waves  roar'.I. 

And  blasts  went  howling  round  her. 
Those  Hebrews  rous'd  their  wearied  Lord.- 

■•  Lord,  help  us  or  we  founder !" 
He  said  "  Ye  waters,  peace,  be  still!" — 

The  chafd  waves  sank  reposing. 
As  wild  herds  rest  on  field  and  hill, 

When  clear  calm  days  are  closing. 


62  THE   TEMPEST   STILLED. 

And  turning  to  the  startled  men 

Who  watch'd  that  surge  subsiding, 
He  spake  in  mournful  accents  then 

These  words  of  righteous  chiding, — 
"0  ye  who  thus  fear  wreck  and  death, 

As  if  by  Heaven  forsaken, 
How  is  it  that  ye  have  no  faith, 

Or  faith  so  quickly  shaken  ?" 

Then,  then,  those  doubters  saw  with  dread 

The  wondrous  scene  before  them ; 
Their  limbs  wax'd  faint,  their  boldness  fled, 

Strange  awe  stole  creeping  o'er  them : — 
"  This,  this,  they  said,  is  Judah's  Lord, 

For  powers  divine  array  Him : 
Behold !  He  does  but  speak  the  word, 

And  winds  and  waves  obey  Him  I" 


63 


THE  FIRST-BORN   OF  EGYPT 


O'er  Pharaoh's  wide  domain, 

The  sun  went  brightly  down, 

On  many  a  lofty  fane, 

And  many  an  ancient  town  : — 

The  revel  song  was  breath 'd, 

The  starry  lamps  were  fair, 

The  banquet  crowns  were  wreath'd, 

And  all  were  joyful  there. 


But,  ere  the  morning  smil'd 
On  temple,  stream,  and  flower, 
A  wailing  strange  and  wild 
Went  up  from  tent  and  tower : — 
The  ruler's  porphyry  halls, 
The  shepherd's  reedy  shed, 
The  dungeon's  sunless  walls, 
All  mourn 'd  an  inmate — dead. 


64  THE   FIRST-BORN    OF   EGYPT. 

For  sudden  wrath  went  forth 
O'er  that  rebellious  land, 
"Which  deem'd  of  little  worth 
Jehovah's  dread  command ; 
And  smote  the  eldest-born, 
AVith  an  avenging  sword, 
Of  those  who  dared  to  scorn 
His  high  and  awful  word. 

The  monarch's  wail  is  loud, 
The  stubborn  heart  is  bent, 
The  lofty  neck  is  bow'd, 
The  Hebrew's  chain  is  rent ; 
Tain  is  the  warrior's  trust ; — 
The  despot's  iron  rod 
Lies  broken  in  the  dust 
Before  a  frowning  Grod. 


65 


GOODNESS     ALONE     KEN  OWN  ED 


"  The  seed  of  evil-doers  shall  never  be  renowned." 

Uxholy  contemner  of  compact  and  vow, 
Shall  the  minstrel  come  weaving  a  wreath  for  thy  brow  ? 
No !  the  banner  may  gorgeously  wave  on  thy  wall, 
The  proud  and  the  lovely  may  bend  in  thy  hall ; 
The  tribes  of  the  fearless  may  rush  to  the  field, 
Where  the  gleam  of  thine  eagles  is  sternly  reveal'd ; 
But  the  song  of  the  bard  is  unpurchas'd  and  free, 
And  his  harp  has  no  voice  for  thy  trophies  and  thee. 

Though  rare  be  the  poet,  and  artful  the  strain, 
[f  he  trusts  but  in  falsehood,  his  efforts  are  vain  ; 
Be  parts  with  his  genius,  his  worth,  and  his  might, 
When  he  fawns  on  the  godless,  and  falls  from  the  right. 
Unbless'd  be  the  birth-place,  unlov'd  be  the  name, 
[Jnhallow'd  the  grave-turf,  undying  the  shame, 
3f  him  who  would  stoop,  from  the  great  and  divine, 
To  pluck  from  oblivion  such  triumphs  as  thine. 


66  GOODNESS  ALONE  RENOWNED. 

Away  !  for  thy  laurels  are  drooping  and  red ; 
All  the  bloom,  which  they  brought  from  the  forest,  has  fled  ; 
They  are  scorch'd  by  the  curse  of  the  noble  and  brave, 
They  are  soil'd  by  the  praise  of  the  wanton  and  slave : 
Thou  hast  look'd  upon  wisdom,  with  coldness  or  hate, 
And  the  prayer  of  the  weak  has  been  spurn'd  at  thy  gate  ; 
Thou  hast  scoff' d  at  the  righteous,  and  warr'd  with  the  free : 
Go  ! — renown  has  no  word  of  memorial  for  thee. 


67 


THE    LETTEE    FROM    HOME 


A  youthful  stranger  walk'd  alone 
In  a  great  city's  busiest  place ; — 
He  heard  not  one  familiar  tone, 
He  saw  not  one  familiar  face ; 
He  trod  that  long  and  weary  street, 
Till  day's  last  beam  wax'd  faint  and  dim, 
But  none  were  nigh  to  cheer  or  greet, — 
Not  one  was  there  to  smile  on  him. 


He  saw  before  him  thickly  press 
The  rude,  the  beautiful,  the  proud, 
And  felt  the  strange  deep  loneliness, 
Which  chills  us  in  the  selfish  crowd : — 
Ay !  though  his  heart  was  stern  and  strong, 
And  scorn'd  each  soft  and  wailing  mood, 
He  felt  a  sore  and  saddening  throng 
Of  doubts  and  wasting  cares  intrude. 


68  THE   LETTER   FROM   HOME. 

While  yet  lie  mused  in  bitter  thought, 
A  messenger  appear'd  at  hand, 
Who  to  that  mourning  pilgrim  brought 
A  letter  from  his  own  fair  land  : — 
Eager  as  if  it  search'd  a  mine, 
His  eye  the  welcome  page  explor'd, 
And,  as  he  read  each  glowing  line, 
Hope,  gladness,  life — were  all  restor'd. 


Yet  mightier  than  the  voice  from  home, 
Which  nerv'd  that  drooping  exile's  breast, 
Those  words  of  thine,  Eedeemer,  come 
To  calm  our  fears  and  give  us  rest : — 
When,  in  some  sad  and  sunless  hour, 
We  pine  for  smiles  and  tones  of  love, 
They  bid  us  look,  through  storm  and  shower, 
To  Thee  our  Light  and  Life  above. 


AN    EVENING    HYMN 


Lord  !  Thou  art  He,  whose  arm  of  might 
First  hung  with  worlds  this  arch  of  night ; 
Thine  is  the  sacred  vesper  hour, 
Thine  the  fresh  turf,  and  closing  flower  ; — 
These  ancient  woods,  that  twilight  sea, 
Those  meads  and  mountains  speak  of  Thee. 


Thine  are  the  dews  which  fall  unseen 

On  forest  glade,  and  village  green ; 

Thine  is  the  pure  and  playful  gale 

That  warbles  in  the  fragrant  vale ; 

Above,  below,  Thy  glories  shine ; — 

Strength,  wisdom,  goodness,  Lord,  are  Thine. 


70  AX   EVENING   HYMN. 

King  of  the  broad  and  radiant  skies, 
Bless  thou  my  song  and  sacrifice ; 
Breathe  o'er  my  soul,  this  tranquil  even, 
Unearthly  peace  and  dreams  of  Heaven  ; 
Sweet  dreams  to  cheer  me  press'd  again 
By  the  rude  war  of  wrongful  men. 


And  when  those  years  to  come  shall  throw 
Their  dullness  o'er  my  bosom's  glow, 
Serene,  as  that  departing  ray 
Which  lights  the  mountains  far  away, 
Let  me  withdraw  from  Earth  to  be 
Eedeem'd  and  blest,  0  God,  with  Thee. 


7L 


THE    MAGNETIC    TELEGRAPH 


Along  the  smooth  and  slender  wires, 

The  sleepless  heralds  run 
Fast  as  the  clear  and  living  rays 

Go  streaming  from  the  sun : 
No  peals  or  flashes  heard  or  seen 

Their  wondrous  flight  betray, 
And  yet  their  words  are  strongly  felt 

In  cities  far  awa}r. 


Nor  summer's  heat  nor  winter's  hail 

Can  check  their  rapid  course ; — 
They  meet  unmov'd  the  fierce  wind's  rage,- 

The  rough  wave's  sweeping  force : — 
In  the  long  night  of  rain  and  wrath, 

As  in  the  blaze  of  day, 
They  rush,  with  news  of  weal  or  woe, 

To  thousands  far  away. 


72  THE   MAGNETIC   TELEGKAPH. 

But,  faster  still  than  tidings  borne 

On  that  electric  cord, 
Eise  the  pure  thoughts  of  him  who  loves 

The  Christian's  life  and  Lord, — 
Of  him  who,  taught  in  smiles  and  tears 

With  fervent  lips  to  pray, 
Maintains  high  converse  here  below, 

"With  bright  worlds  far  away. 


Ay !  though  nor  outward  wish  is  breath 'd, 

Nor. outward  answer  given, 
The  sighing  of  that  humble  heart 

Is  known  and  felt  in  Heaven : — 
Those  long  frail  wires  may  bend  and  break, 

Those  viewless  heralds  stray, 
But  Faith's  least  word  shall  reach  the  throne 

Of  God,  though  far  away. 


73 


THE    CHRISTIAN    BANNER 


The  Christian  Banner  !    Dread  no  loss 

Where  that  broad  ensign  floats  unroll'd, 
But  let  the  fair  and  sacred  Cross 

Blaze  out  from  every  radiant  fold : — 
Stern  foes  arise,  a  countless  throng, 

Loud  as  the  storms  of  Kara's  sea, 
But,  though  the  strife  be  fierce  and  long, 

That  Cross  shall  wave  in  victory. 


Sound  the  shrill  trumpet,  sound,  and  call 
The  people  of  the  Mighty  King, 

And  bid  them  keep  that  standard  all 
In  martial  thousands  gathering  ; — 

Let  them  come  forth  from  every  clime, 
That  lies  beneath  the  circling  sun, 

Various,  as  flowers  in  that  sweet  time 

When  flowers  are  born, — in  heart  but  one. 
6 


74  THE    CHRISTIAN   BANNER. 

Soldiers  of  Heaven  !  take  sword  and  shield, 

Look  up  to  Him  who  rules  on  high; 
And  forward  to  the  glorious  field, 

Where  noble  martyrs  bleed  and  die  ; — 
Press  onward,  scorning  flight  or  fear, 

As  deep  waves  burst  on  Norway's  coast,. 
And  let  the  startled  nations  hear 

The  war-shout  of  a  Christian  host. 


Lift  up  the  Banner : — rest  no  more, 

Nor  let  this  righteous  warfare  cease, 
Till  man's  last  tribe  shall  bow  before 

The  Lord  of  Lords — the  Prince  of  Peace 
Go  ! — bear  it  forth,  ye  strong  and  brave  ; 

Let  not  those  bright  folds  once  be  furl'd, 
Till  that  high  sun  shall  see  them  wave 

Above  a  blest  but  conquer 'd  world. 


75 


A    CEEISTIAX    STEIFE. 


Written  when  public  meetings  for  the  relief  of  Ireland  were  held  in  all 
parts  of  the  United  States. 


Ay  !  these  are,  Columbia,  the  counsels  and  words — 
High  counsels  of  wisdom — pure  breathings  of  worth — 
That,  better  than  armies  and  stronger  than  swords, 
Can  give  thee*  the  crown  and  the  sceptre  of  Earth : — 
When  perishing  thousands  are  weeping  afar, 
To  do  that  which  thou  in  thy  greatness  hast  done — 
This,  this  is  Love's  guiltless  and  merciful  war ; — 
Here  foes  may  be  scatter'd,  and  fields  may  be  won. 

The  life-giving  ship  which  shall  float  to  that  land, 
With  the  stars  of  thy  banner  unfurl'd  at  the  mast, 
"Will  raise  a  memorial  more  lasting  and  grand, 
Than  all  thy  fair  trophies  bequeath'd  from  the  past : 
And  when  those  yet  unborn  their  stern  verdict  shall  give 
On  all  that  were  mighty  to  save  or  to  slay, 
This  generous  work  will  outshine  and  outlive 
The  toils  and  the  glories  of  red  Monterey. 


76  A   CHRISTIAN   STRIFE. 

Thy  praises  shall  sound  in  the  green  Innisfail, 
From  the  crags  of  Bengore  to  the  sands  of  Tralee : — 
On  mountain  and  hill-side,  in  lowland  and  vale, 
They  will  speak  with  full  hearts  of  thy  children  and  thee : 
By  the  Foyle  and  the  Bandon,  in  legend  and  song, 
They  will  tell  how  their  fathers,  remov'd  and  at  rest, 
When  the  skies  were  all  dark,  and  the  tempest  wax'd  strong, 
Saw  Mercy's  high  stormbow  first  arching  the  west. 


Then  forward  and  faint  not,  nor  lose  thou  thy  fame ; 
On,  on,  with  the  force  and  the  fervour  of  youth ; — 
No  vanishing  splendour  shall  blaze  round  thy  name, 
If  thou  be  but  valiant  for  goodness  and  truth. 
The  soldier,  who  struggles  for  victory,  bears 
To  the  murderous  conflict  the  lance  and  the  sword  ;- 
Know  thou  that  a  weapon  more  potent  is  theirs, 
Who  share  with  the  falling  the  gifts  of  their  Lord. 


77 


LONGING    FOE    HOME. 


Suggested  by  an  Ode  of  Casimir  Sarbiewski. 

The  glories  of  my  Father's  land 

Wake  many  a  keen  desire, — 
Its  realms  of  ether  broad  and  deep, 

Its  orbs  of  sacred  fire, 
Its  climate  ever  purely  bright, 

Its  halls  and  harps  of  gold, 
Its  people  free  from  guilt  and  death, 

Its  joys  which  grow  not  old. 


Ye  radiant  hosts,  that  strictly  keep 

Your  ceaseless  watch  on  high, 
Walking  in  fair  and  holy  ranks, 

The  wide  and  azure  sky, 
Behold  one  form'd  to  climb  and  ransre 

Those  fields  of  lucid  blue; 
Support  one  worn  by  strife  and  pain, 

Far  off  from  Heaven  and  you. 


LONGING   FOR   HOME. 

Yet  know  that  He,  Yvrho  cares  for  all, 

And  rules  by  laws  divine, 
"Who  bids  me  toil  in  grief  and  gloom, 

While  ye  rejoice  and  shine, 
Has  said  that  meek  and  steadfast  faith 

His  choicest  gifts  ensures  : — 
A  Christian's  place  and  state  with  Him 

Shall  more  than  equal  yours. 


Be  mine  the  green  and  dewy  turf — 

The  turf  w^hich  wraps  the  dead, 
With  trees  and  flowers  to  wave  and  bloom 

Above  my  last  low  bed. 
I  fain  would  leave  this  weary  world: — 

Dwellers  in  yon  starr'd  dome, 
Bend  earthward  from  your  shining  seats, 

And  take  an  exile  home. 


79 


GOOD    TIDINGS    OF    GEEAT    JOY.'' 


Oh  !  sweep  the  loud  harp's  tuneful  strings, 
Break  forth,  like  song-birds  after  showers, 
To  tell  how  He — the  King  of  kings — 
Came  to  this  ruin'd  world  of  ours: — 
If  angels  beam'd  on  Judah's  hills, 
And  bid  those  watchers  then  rejoice, 
Shall  we,  whose  ears  that  message  fills, 
Mock  with  cold  hearts  the  sacred  voice  ? 


When  He —  the  Son  of  God — was  born, 
We  walk'd  in  darkness  far  astray, 
But,  fair  as  Greenland's  arctic  morn, 
He  chas'd  our  long  drear  night  away : — 
His  head  that  manger  cradle  press'd, 
He  toil'd  and  suffer'd  many  a  year, 
To  give  the  fainting  nations  rest, 
To  dry  the  mourner's  bitter  tear. 


80  GOOD  TIDINGS   OF   GREAT  JOY. 

Who,  who,  that  ever  breath 'd  on  Earth, 
Bard,  prophet,  hero,  saint,  or  sage, 
Gave  cause  like  this  for  righteous  mirth, 
To  men  of  every  clime  and  age? 
Oh !  it  were  shameful  and  unwise 
Before  those  waning  lights  to  fall, 
Yet  look,  with  cold  and  careless  ej^es, 
On  Him — the  Central  Sun  of  all. 


Go,  tell  the  trembling  slave  of  guilt, 
Whose  breast  is  sad,  whose  eye  is  dim, 
That  Just  One's  sacred  blood  was  spilt, 
To  win  back  Heaven's  lost  smile  for  him:- 
All,  all  may  join  His  glorious  bands, 
In  that  far  world  of  light  and  bliss, 
Who  keep  His  pure  and  high  commands, 
With  meek  and  faithful  hearts  in  this. 


81 


IMAGES    OF    GOD. 


Not  from  the  noble  quarry, 

Nor  from  the  wealthy  mine, 
Shalt  thou  bring  images  of  God 

To  deck  His  house  or  shrine : 
Carrara's  marble  mountains 

Before  His  face  are  dim ; 
The  purest  gold,  that  Sibir  yields, 

Kecoils  abash'd  at  Him. 


Canova's  art  and  chisel 

Could  faultless  beauty  give ; 
His  glowing  thought  and  magic  touch 

Could  make  dead  marble  live  ; — 
For  him  lost  Nymphs  and  Heroes 

Would  from  the  rough  block  spring ; 
But  weak  were  all  Canova's  skill 

To  frame  the  seraph's  King, 


IMAGES    OF    GOD. 

Iii  stone  of  snowy  whiteness 

And  precious  ores  of  Earth, 
Triumphant  Genius  carves  or  mould; 

All  shapes  of  human  birth  ; — 
He  calls  up  forms  and  features, 

Which  never  yet  have  been, 
But  vainly  will  he  toil  or  think 

To  show — the  Great  Unseen. 


If  thou  wouldst  find  his  likeness, 

Search  where  the  lowly  dwell, 
The  faithful  few  that  keep  His  laws 

Not  boastfully  but  well : 
Mark  those  who  walk  rejoicing 

The  way  which  Jesus  trod; — 
Thus  only  shalt  thou  see  below 

Fit  images  of  God. 


83 


THE    JOYS    OF    HE  A  YE  N. 


To  Heaven,  where  tears  and  sighs 

Are  lost  in  endless  bliss, 

How  beautiful  to  rise 

From  such  a  world  as  this, — 
To  burst  our  chains,  and  flee  away 
To  those  high  realms  of  lasting  day  ! 


There  God's  bright  cherubim, 

Harping  on  golden  chords, 

Chant  many  a  lofty  hymn, 

In  sweet  and  glowing  words  : 
The  saddening  thoughts  and  plaintive  tone 
Of  earthly  songs  are  there  unknown. 


84  THE   JOYS   OF   HEAVEN". 

They  too  of  woman  born, 
Who  prov'd  what  faith  will  dare, 
Unbow'd  by  scourge  or  scorn, 
Are  blest  for  ever  there. 
They  brav'd  the  foeman's  torch  and  sword, 
They  won  the  victor's  great  reward. 


Who,  that  has  ever  shed 
One  penitential  tear, 
Who,  that  has  toil'd  or  bled 
For  truth,  would  linger  here, 
Nor  long  to  join  the  sacred  band, 
The  shining  host  of  that  fair  land  ? 


85 


THE    VENAL    SANCTUARY 


I  trod  the  kallow'd  ground  that  bore 
A  Christian  temple  tall  and  proud, 
When  at  each  wide  and  lofty  door 
Went  streaming  in  a  gorgeous  crowd  :- 
A  welcome  day  bid  all  rejoice — 
A  fair  and  ancient  festival, 
And  the  glad  organ's  mighty  voice 
Shook  the  strong  roof  and  Gothic  wall. 


Full  many  a  token  mark'd  the  fold 
Where  rich  and  high  believers  meet, 
The  sacred  volume  clasp'd  in  gold, 
The  costly  robe,  and  drowsy  seat : — 
Priest,  people,  altar,  chancel,  choir, 
Arch,  column,  window,  porch,  and  gate- 
That  ample  fane,  from  vault  to  spire, 
Look'd  solemn  all  and  calmly  great. 


86  THE   VENAL   SANCTUARY. 

But  mark  !     An  old  and  weary  man — 
A  stranger  clad  "  in  raiment  vile," 
With  failing  steps  and  features  wan, 
"Went  tottering  up  the  fair  broad  aisle  : — ■ 
They  cast  him  out — Oh  faithless  race  ! 
On  some  rude  bench — despis'd — remote, — 
Convicted,  in  that  hour  and  place, 
Of — a  lean  purse  and  threadbare  coat ! 

Yes !  and  if  He,  who  saved  the  lost, 
Stood  fainting  on  that  haughty  floor, 
Array'd  in  weeds  of  little  cost, 
Meek  as  He  sought  our  world  before ; 
In  spite  of  words  which  none  might  blame. 
And  works  of  goodness  freely  done, 
That  sordid  post  of  scorn  and  shame 
Would  greet— Jehovah's  only  Son. 

Oh  for  a  prophet's  tongue  or  pen, 
To  warn  the  great  in  wealth  and  birth, 
Who  build  their  God  a  house,  and  then 
Plant  there — the  meanest  pomps  of  Earth ; — 
To  brand  that  Church,  which  spurns  the  poor 
From  every  vain  and  venal  pew, 
Where  "  cloth'd  in  purple"  herd  secure 
To  kneel  or  sleep — the  lordly  few  ! 


THE   YEXAL   SANCTUARY.  ST 

Give  me  the  shed,  low,  bare,  and  plain. 
Where  love  and  hnmble  truth  abide, 
Rather  than  Earth's  most  noble  fane 
Defil'd  by  selfish  pomp  and  pride  : 
Give  me  the  damp  and  desert  sod 
YVall'd  in  by  dark  old  forest  trees, 
Roof  d  over  by  the  skies  of  God. 
But  perish  temples  such  as  these  ! 


88 


A    POET'S    LAST    SONG. 


Make  me  a  grave  in  the  pines  of  the  mountain, 
The  pines  which  I  loved  in  the  days  that  are  past  ;■ 
There  let  the  stream,  as  it  falls  from  the  fountain, 
Mingle  its  hymn  with  the  moan  of  the  blast : 
Free  on  my  turf,  when  the  spring  is  returning, 
Leave  thou  the  bird  of  the  desert  to  breed ; — 
There,  when  the  red  beam  of  summer  is  burning, 
Oft  let  the  herd  of  the  wilderness  feed. 


Fleeting  and  few  were  the  joys  which  I  tasted, 
Fool'd  by  the  teachings  of  error  so  long ; — 
Noble  and  high  were  the  gifts  which  I  wasted, 
Heedless  of  all  but  my  mood  and  my  song : — 
Worthless  and  mean  were  my  strain  and  my  story  - 
The  feast  and  the  wine-cup,  the  sword  and  the  fray 
Faith  with  its  grandeur,  and  Truth  with  its  glory, 
Shed  not  their  light  on  my  life  or  my  lay. 


A  poet's  last  soxg.  89 

Son  of  my  God,  who  wast  laid  in  the  manger, 
Mark  my  repentance,  and  pity  my  doom. — 
Thou  who  wast  tried  by  temptation  and  danger, 
Thou  that  hast  vanquish'd  the  cross  and  the  tomb  ! 
Vengeful  and  loud  when  the  trumpet  is  ringing, 
Sounding  the  dirge  of  the  field  and  the  sea, 
Grant  me  a  place,  where  the  ransom'd  are  singing 
Anthems  which  speak  of  Redemption  and  Thee. 


90 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    GRAVE 


Moktal,  whom  choice  or  chance  has  hither  led 
To  muse  among  the  dwellings  of  the  dead, 
Look  on  this  grave  and  drop  one  sacred  tear : — 
The  good — the  young — the  gifted — slumbers  here. 


Christian,  whose  earnest  heart  and  upward  eye 
Are  fixed  on  deathless  realms  beyond  the  sky ; 
Be  glad  for  one  whose  work  is  nobly  done, 
Whose  suffering  past,  whose  crown  of  glory  won. 


91 


THE     RIVER    SACO. 


The  Saco  has  its  springs  in  New  Hampshire,  near  the  celebrated 
11  NOTCH"  of  the  White  or  Agiocochook  Mountains,  and  reaches  the 
Atlantic  after  a  winding  course  through  the  State  of  Maine.  It  re- 
ceives the  waters  of  many  lakes  and  streams,  passes  over  numerous 
falls,  and  is  throughout  remarkable  for  its  clearness  and  beauty. 

From  Agiocochook's  granite  steeps, 

Fair  Saco  rolls  in  chainless  pride, 
Rejoicing  as  it  laughs  and  leaps 

Down  the  gray  mountain's  rugged  side; — 
The  stern  rent  crags  and  tall  dark  pines 

Watch  that  young  pilgrim  flashing  by, 
While  close  above  them  frowns  or  shines 

The  black  torn  cloud,  or  deep  blue  sky. 

Soon  gathering  strength  it  swiftly  takes 

Through  Bartlett's  vales  its  tuneful  way, 
Or  hides  in  Conway's  fragrant  brakes, 

Retreating  from  the  glare  of  day ; — 
Xow,  full  of  vigorous  life,  it  springs 

From  the  strong  mountain's  circling  arms. 
And  roams,  in  wide  and  lucid  rings, 

Among  green  Fryeburg's  woods  and  farms. 


92  THE   RIVER   SACO. 

Here,  with  low  voice,  it  comes  and  calls 

For  tribute  from  some  hermit  lake, 
And  here  it  wildly  foams  and  falls, 

Bidding  the  forest  echoes  wake ; — 
Now  sweeping  on  it  runs  its  race 

By  mound  and  mill  in  playful  glee ; — 
Now  welcomes,  with  its  pure  embrace, 

The  vestal  waves  of  Ossipee. 

At  last,  with  loud  and  solemn  roar, 

Spurning  each  rocky  ledge  and  bar, 
It  sinks  where,  on  the  sounding  shore, 

The  broad  Atlantic  heaves  afar ; — 
There,  on  old  ocean's  faithful  breast, 

Its  wealth  of  waves  it  proudly  flings, 
And  there  its  weary  waters  rest, 

Clear  as  they  left  their  crystal  springs. 

Sweet  stream,  it  were  a  fate  divine, 

Till  this  world's  toils  and  tasks  were  done, 
To  go,  like  those  bright  floods  of  thine, 

Kef  resting  all,  enslaved  by  none, — 
To  pass  through  scenes  of  calm  and  strife, 

Singing,  like  thee,  with  holy  mirth, 
And  close  in  peace  a  varied  life, 

Unsullied  by  one  stain  of  Earth. 


93 


THE    ROCK    IN    THE     ATLANTIC. 


In  the  sleepless  Atlantic,  remote  and  alone, 
Is  a  rock  which  the  wild  waves  all  wrathfully  beat ;  — 
Its  echoing  bulwarks  with  sea-drift  are  strown, 
And  dark  are  the  waters  that  roll  at  its  feet : 
Let  the  shrill  winds  of  ocean  go  forth  as  they  may, 
It  wars -with  the  surges,  and  knows  not  of  rest ; — 
Its  pinnacles  drip  with  the  fast-falling  spray, 
And  billows  are  breaking  in  foam  on  its  breast. 


But  though  breakers  and  whirlwinds  around  it  ma}'  sweep 

Ttfat  hermit  of  ocean  lives  conquering  on, 

And  the  mariner  sees  it  still  fronting  the  deep, 

As  it  flung  back  the  surf  in  the  years  that  are  gone  : 

All  worn  but  unshaken  that  desolate  rock, 

Fast  rooted  where  islands  and  earthquakes  are  born, 

Looks  fearlessly  down  on  the  breaker's  rude  shock, 

And  laughs  the  vain  force  of  the  tempest  to  scorn. 


94  THE   KOCK   IN   THE   ATLANTIC. 

Oil  thou,  who  reverest  a  master  above, 
And  sighest  for  glories  immortal  and  high, 
Be  strong  in  believing,  and  steadfast  in  love, 
When  passion  is  loud,  and  the  tempter  is  nigh : — 
When  infidels  bid  thee  be  false  to  thy  Lord, 
When  they  laugh  at  the  Faith  that  ennobles  and  saves, 
When  they  scoff  at  His  people,  and  rail  at  his  word, 
Be  thou  to  their  wildness  that  rock  in  the  waves. 


Ay !  stand  like  that  sea-cliff,  nor  ask  thou  to  shun 
The  work  of  obedience,  the  cares,  or  the  cost : — 
There  are  treasures  of  infinite  price  to  be  won, 
There  are  treasures  of  infinite  price  to  be  lost :  — 
With  the  wiles  of  the  tempter,  his  vengeance  or  mirth, 
Strive  thou  as  the  bold  and  the  faithful  have  striven, 
And  the  sorrows  and  toils  of  thy  warfare  on  Earth 
Shall  be  paid  in  the  peace  and  the  raptures  of  Heaven. 


95 


A    MARTYR'S    VICTORY. 


When  Alaric  the  Goth  was  defeated  at  Pollentia  and  Verona  (A. 
D.  403,)  by  Stilicho  the  general  of  Honorius,  and  so  driven  for  a 
time  from  Italy,  the  Romans  celebrated  that  event  with  great 
rejoicing  and  magnificence.  A  triumphal  procession  and  a  conflict 
of  wild  beasts  at  once  dazzled  and  gratified  the  multitude.  The 
shows  of  gladiators  were  then  for  ever  brought  to  an  end  by 
TELEMACHUS,  an  Asiatic  monk,  whom  the  people  stoned  to  death 
in  the  amphitheatre  for  attempting  to  separate  the  combatants. 
Honorius  was  thus  reminded  of  his  duty  as  a  Christian  emperor,  and 
soon  after  put  forth  an  edict  forbidding  all  such  exhibitions  for  the 
future. 

The  streets  are  tlirong'd  in  mighty  Rome, 

The  gleaming  ensigns  spread, 
While  warriors  march  in  triumph  home, 

With  firm  and  measur'd  tread : 
For,  bow'd  at  last  and  forced  to  yield 
On  rough  Pollentia's  banner'd  field, 

Stern  Alaric — has  fled : 
His  kingly  pride,  and  Gothic  powers 
Lie  crush'd  beneath  Verona's  towers. 


96  a  martyr's  victory. 

Those  who  once  quail'd  at  that  dire  name 

May  now  deride  their  foe, 
And  boast  as  if  they  shar'd  the  fame 

Of  glorious  Stilicho, — 
Of  him  who  felt  no  craven  fears 
Eise  at  the  flash  of  northern  spears, 

And  struck  no  feeble  blow, 
But  match'd,  with  trophies  green  and  high, 
The  monuments  of  days  gone  by. 

But,  when  the  clear  Italian  sun 

Pours  down  its  noontide  fire, 
The  trumpet  speaks  the  games  begun, 

Which  idle  crowds  admire  ; 
And  soon  from  barr'd  and  gloomy  caves 
Driven  oat  by  troops  of  stalwart  slaves, 

In  grim  and  sullen  ire, 
Beasts,  the  wild  brood  of  many  a  land, 
Pace  with  loud  rage  the  smooth  bright  sand. 

Gsetulia's  lion,  freshly  brought 

From  scorch'd  and  desert  plains, 
And  ravening  tigers  newly  sought 

On  Parthia's  waste  domains  ; 
Bears  from  the  frozen  Oder's  mouth, 
And  panthers  from  the  burning  South, 

Bred  in  old  Nubian  fanes, 
Make  there  a  stern  and  ghastly  fray 
For  tribes  more  savage  far  than  they. 


a  martyr's  victory.  97 

But  Lark!  the  trumpet's  warning  peal 

Is  sounding  as  before, 
And  bondsmen  clear,  with  staff  and  steel, 

The  red  arena's  floor  ; 
The  fainting  brutes  are  swept  away, 
This  sav'd  to  bleed  another  day, 

That  weltering  in  its  or>re, 
And  Men,  of  martial  frame  and  race, 
Take  with  slow  step  the  vacant  place. 

Two,  chosen  from  the  warlike  throng, 

Begin  a  deadly  strife  ; 
One  a  gray  swordsman,  scarr'd  and  strong, 

One  in  the  bloom  of  life ; 
This  nurs'd  where  snows  on  Haemus  shine, 
That  torn  from  hills  beside  the  Ehine, 

From  children,  home,  and  wife : 
And  high-born  matrons  hold  their  breath, 
All  bent  to  see  the  work  of  death. 

Their  toil  was  fierce  but  short;  and  now, 

Flung  bleeding  in  the  dust, 
The  Thracian  waits,  with  pale  cold  brow, 

The  last  and  mortal  thrust; 
When  rushing  forth,  till  then  unseen, 
A  swarthy  pilgrim  leaps  between, 

Strong  in  a  Christian's  trust, 
And  drench'd  with  blood,  yet  undismay'd, 
Stays  with  fix'd  grasp  the  uplifted  blade. 


98  A  martyr's  victory. 

A  light  smooth  cross  of  cedar  wood 

The  gentle  stranger  bore, 
Long  worn  in  holy  solitude 

On  Syria's  palmy  shore  ; 
"Romans"  he  said,  "for  Him  whose  birth 
Gave  man  blest  hopes  of  peace  on  Earth, 

Rise,  and  for  evermore, 
Servants  of  God  in  act  and  name, 
Cast  off  these  works  of  wrong  and  shame." 

He  ceased  :  a  scowl  like  noon's  eclipse 

Spreads  fast  from  seat  to  seat, 
And  fourscore  thousand  angry  lips 

Loud  words  of  wrath  repeat : 
They  rave  and  roar,  as  groves  of  pine 
Wak'd  on  the  Etrurian  Apennine 
"When  storms  the  tall  crags  beat, 
Till,  heav'd  and  troubled  furiously, 
Breaks  in  one  surge  that  living  sea. 

The  German  leaves  his  task  undone, 

The  Thracian  creeps  aside, 
The  swordsmen  flee  like  herds  that  shun 

Yex'd  Arno's  foaming  tide  ; 
But,  as  a  pharos  meets  the  shock 
Of  waves  on  some  unshelter'd  rock 

Where  seas  are  deep  and  wide, 
TELEMACHUS  look'd  up,  and  trod 
That  post  of  danger  true  to  God. 


A  martyr's  victory.  99 

And,  when  the  stony  tempest  burst 

On  his  defenceless  head, 
He  stood  unshrinking  as  at  first, 

As  free  from  doubt  or  dread : 
With  aspect  full  of  peace  and  love, 
As  if  he  came  from  worlds  above, 

And  hands  in  prayer  outspread, 
He  laid  him  down,  nor  breath'd  again, 
"Whelm'd  by  that  host  of  vengeful  men. 

Yet  deem  thou  not  the  martyr  died 

Warring  for  right  in  vain ; 
His  was  the  prize  for  which  he  sigh'd, 

And  his  the  eterxal  gaix  : 
Fierce  Alaric  shall  yet  return, 
And  Eome's  fair  dwellings  blaze  and  burn, 

Filfd  with  red  heaps  of  slain : — - 
Man's  blood,  pour'd  out  in  wanton  mirth, 
Shall  blast  no  more  the  ransom 'd  Earth. 


100 


"THE    JOY    OF    THE    HARP." 


In  the  dayspring  of  life,  when  existence  was  gladness, 

On  the  wide  heathy  mountains,  apart  from  the  throng, 
I  felt  in  this  bosom  the  minstrel's  sweet  madness, 

The  pains  and  the  transports  of  music  and  song ; 
And  when  morn,  with  its  dews  and  its  fragrance,  was  fading, 

Though  the  cold  and  the  worldly  would  cavil  and  carp, 
I  turn'd  with  new  love  from  their  harshest  upbraiding, 

To  the  sound  that  first  charm'd  me — the  voice  of  the  harp. 


The  names  and  the  deeds,  which  are  fairest  in  story, 

The  great  and  eternal,  the  just  and  divine, 
The  prophet's  true  words,  and  the  martyr's  pure  glory — 

Such  thoughts  in  those  hours  of  enchantment  were  mine  ; 
And,  when  manhood  was  come,  with  its  weary  revealings, 

No  crowds  could  estrange  me,  no  falsehood  could  warp  : 
I  clave  but  the  more  to  my  boyhood's  fresh  feelings, 

My  boyhood's  chief  treasure — the  wealth  of  the  harp. 


THE   JOY   OF   THE   HARP.  101 

Nor,  when  age  with  its  weakness  and  woe  shall  oppress  me, 

When  the  mist  and  the  shadow  shall  close  round  me  fast, 
Though  the  present  may  vex,  and  the  future  distress  me, 

Will  I  cherish  less  warmly  this  light  of  the  past : — 
And  when  death  the  strong  links,  which  now  bind  me,  shall  sever, 

With  a  weapon  thrice  glorious,  though  searching  and  sharp, 
Let  me  share,  with  the  wise  and  the  faithful,  for  ever, 

The  rapture  of  angels — "the  joy  of  the  harp." 


102 


SANCTIONS    FOR    CHRISTIAN    SONG 


11 1  will  praise  the  name  of  God  with  a  song." — Psalm  lxix.,  30. 

"The  ransomed  of  the  Lord  shall  return,  and  come  to  Zion  with 
.songs." — Isaiah  xxxv.,  10. 


"  Admonishing  one  another  in  psalms,  and  hymns,  and  spiritual 
songs." — Colossians  iii.,  16. 


The  harps  of  God      *        *        *        the  soxg  of  the  Lamb." — 

Revelation  xv.,  2,  3. 


TRANSLATIONS 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


105 


MILTON    TO    HIS    FATHER. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  MILTON, 


Milton's  father  was  educated  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  and  was  a 
man  of  liberal  attainments.  Like  his  son,  he  delighted  and  excelled 
in  music. 

Ye  tuneful  waters,  glad  Pierian  streams, 
Take  through  this  youthful  breast  your  dewy  .way  ; 
And  thou  fair  fountain,  born  on  Delphian  heights, 
Come  down  with  all  thy  waves  and  bathe  my  lips, 
That,  leaving  each  less  noble  theme  beneath, 
My  muse  may  soar,  on  broad  and  fearless  wing, 
To  speak  a  son's  meet  reverence  for  a  sire. 

But  know,  thou  best  of  parents,  this  my  lay, 
Pleasing  to  thee,  aims  at  no  work  sublime ; 
And  yet  what  gift  could  I  more  fitly  bring, 
In  payment  of  thy  rare  munificence  ? 
Great  acts  would  vainly  seek  to  match  thy  bounties, 
Much  less  weak  thanks  set  forth  in  empty  words ; 
But  this  poor  page  records  my  whole  estate, 
This  paper  shows  thee  all  my  worldly  store : 


106  MILTOX   TO   HIS   FATHER. 

No  weal tli  is  mine  save  that  which  Clio  grants, 
Wealth  gain'd  by  slumbering  in  deep  twilight  caves. 
Among  the  laurel  groves,  that  thickly  shade 
Parnassus'  wild  and  solitary  slopes. 

Despise  not  thou  the  poet's  work  divine. 
Song  most  of  all  commends  ethereal  natures, 
Celestial  seeds,  and  minds  that  beam  through  clay. 
Song  still  retains  the  warm  and  lucid  marks 
Of  that  pure  flame,  which  wise  Prometheus  brought 
From  starr 'd  Olympus : — all  on  high  love  song. 
Immortal  song  can  move  the  realms  of  death, 
Can  melt  the  stern  and  awful  gods  below, 
And  bind  thin  shades  in  threefold  adamant. 
In  verse  Apollo's  fervid  priestesses, 
In  sacred  verse  pale  trembling  sibyls  weave 
The  dark  events  of  seasons  yet  to  be. 
The  priest,  before  the  red  and  solemn  altars, 
Repeats  some  holy  verse,  when  he  strikes  down 
The  tall  sleek  bull  with  wreath 'd  and  gilded  horns ; 
And,  as  he  views  the  quick  and  smoking  fibres, 
He  reads  in  verse  the  dread  decrees  of  fate. 
AVe,  too,  revisiting  our  native  skies, 
When  time  shall  end  in  fixed  eternity, 
Shall  go  with  crowns  of  gold  through  those  high  world- 
Joining  sweet  numbers  to  celestial  harps, 
Numbers,  with  which  those  radiant  fields  above, 
And  either  pole's  convexity  shall  ring. 


MILTON"    TO    HIS    FATIIER.  10*3 

The  eternal  fire,  that  moves  the  circling  sphere-. 

Chants,  as  it  burns  among  sidereal  hosts, 

Undying  notes,  unutterable  strains. 

Touch'd  by  the  sound,  the  torrid  serpent  checks 

Its  wrathful  hissings ;  fierce  Orion  drops 

His  lifted  sword,  and  sweetly  dreams  of  peace, 

TVnile  Manritanian  Atlas  feels  no  more 

His  load  of  stars : — Song,  ever  glorious  song, 

Was  wont  to  grace  the  lofty  feasts  of  Kings, 

Ere  luxury,  with  riotous  excess 

In  meat  or  wine,  defiTd  the  social  board. 

The  glowing  minstrel,  then  a  welcome  guest, 

His  unshorn  locks  all  wreath'd  with  leaves  of  beech. 

Sang  the  great  deeds  of  heroes,  noble  deeds, 

Which  all  should  make  their  own  ;  told  of  vex'd  chaos  ; 

Harp'd  of  this  grand  and  boundless  universe, 

Its  firm  foundations  and  its  airy  domes, 

Of  infant  gods  on  primal  acorns  fed, 

And  thunderbolts  unsought  in  ^Etna's  caves. 

Oh,  deem  not  idle  this  strange  power  of  song  : 

A'uices  though  rich,  and  symphonies  though  sweet. 

Feeling  though  deep — what  are  they  without  words? 

Mere  sound  befits  untaught  and  savage  men  ; 

It  suits  not  Orpheus,  him  who  chain'd  swift  riv 

Gave  hard  oaks  ears,  and  forcd  the  dead  to  weep : 

His  was  triumphant  song,  not  tuneful  sound. 


108  MILTON   TO   HIS   FATHER. 

Look  not  with  coldness  on  the  sacred  muses, 
Nor  judge  them  vain  : — their  skilful  worshipper 
Full  oft  thou  marriest  harmony  to  verse, 
And  pourest  out  a  thousand  melodies 
Varied  and  rich,  Arion's  worthiest  heir. 
Then  marvel  not  if  heaven  has  destin'd  thee 
To  be  a  poet's  father ;  marvel  not 
If  we,  "bound  fast  in  love  and  one  in  blood, 
Eejoice  in  kindred  arts  and  like  pursuits. 
Phoebus  divides  himself  between  us  two  ; — 
Mine  he  proclaims  the  sacred  gift  of  song, 
And  thine  the  witching  force  of  melody : 
We  share  the  god  between  us,  sire  and  son. 

Though  thou  dost  feign  to  hate  the  gentle  muses, 
Thou  dost  not  hate  them : — me  thou  sufferest  not 
To  travel  in  the  wide  and  beaten  way, 
Where  hope  discerns  fair  heaps  of  ruddy  gold ; 
Thou  dost  not  bid  me  seek  ignoble  gains, 
From  broken  laws  and  feebly  guarded  rights, 
Skill'd  in  the  unblushing  pleader's  wrongful  arts, 
And  doom'd  to  the  rank  forum's  broils  and  brawls. 
Resolv'd  by  culture  to  make  rich  the  mind, 
Thou  biddest  me  leave  the  city's  fevercl  throng, 
And  dwell  among  Aonian  streams  and  shades, 
A  blest  attendant  upon  Phoebus  here. 


MILTOX   TO   HIS   FATHER.  109 

The  common  duties  of  a  tender  parent 
I  name  not :  greater  themes  demand  my  verse. 
Thou,  foremost  in  the  rank  of  noble  fathers, 
Reckless  of  cost,  didst  open  to  my  sight 
The  stately  eloquence  of  the  Roman  tongue, 
Old  Latium's  charms  ;  and  those  majestic  words 
Which  lofty  Greeks  have  spoken,  words  that  well 
Might  suit  the  mouth  of  Jove.     By  thee  persuaded, 
I  sought  and  pluck'd  the  fresh  gay  flowers  of  France, 
And  mark'd  the  syllables  so  smooth  and  sad, 
Which  he,  who  dwells  in  Italy's  warm  vales, 
Breathes  from  degenerate  lips,  his  voice  recording 
Barbarian  tumults  and  lonsr  years  of  strife. 
Upheld  by  thee,  I  scann'd,  with  pleasant  toil, 
Those  mysteries  which  Palestine's  wise  kings, 
And  minstrel  prophets  teach.     All  that  high  heaven 
Holds  in  its  deathless  mansions ;  all  that  Earth 
Sees  spread  below  the  skies ;  all  that  this  air 
Hides  in  its  azure  depths  'twixt  Earth  and  Heaven ; 
All  that  lies  buried  in  the  dark  abyss, 
Beneath  the  swelling  marble  of  the  deep, 
I  now  may  search  and  learn,  if  learn  I  will : — 
Knowledge  beholds  me  from  her  broken  cloud, 
And  gently  bends  her  rosy  lips  to  mine, 
Unless  I  basely  spurn  her  proffer'd  kiss. 


110  MILTOX   TO    HIS   FATHER. 

Go  thou  that,  void  of  reason,  dost  prefer 
The  ancestral  hoards  of  Austria's  potent  kings, 
And  ores  that  sparkle  in  Peruvian  mines, 
Compare  these  riches  with  thy  wildest  dreams. 
What  more  could  human  father  grant  a  son  ? 
What  more  could  Jove  himself,  were  he  to  give 
All  short  of  heaven  ? — Xo  fairer  boon  than  this, 
Had  even  the  boon  prov'd  safe,  did  Phoebus  grant 
When  trusting,  to  the  rash  young  Phaethon, 
The  Sun's  bright  chariot  with  the  reins  of  day, 
And  that  tiara  rich  in  golden  beams. 
I  nameless  now,  the  least  in  wisdom's  train, 
Will  sit  amid  green  laurel  and  fresh  ivy, 
The  victor's  meed  :  — not  lon^,  not  lono-  obscure 
Will  I  go  mingling  with  the  slothful  herd : 
My  track  shall  shun  profane  and  vulgar  eyes. 
Away  ye  sleepless  cares,  complaints  away  ! 
Begone,  foul  Envy,  with  thy  sidelong  glance ; 
Stretch  not  thy  snaky  jaws,  dire  Calumny  ; 
Fell  brood,  ye  wield  your  terrors  all  in  vain; 
I  scoff  at  your  dominion  :  strong  in  heart, 
I  will  securely  tread  my  path  on  high, 
Far  from  the  lurking  viper's  deadly  stroke. 


MILTON   TO   HIS    FATHER.  Ill 

And  thou,  the  prop  and  shelter  of  my  youth, 
Since  I  may  not  requite  thy  generous  deeds, 
Nor  meet  thy  bounties  with  a  fit  return, 
Deem  it  enough  that  I  do  thus  record, 
In  these  true  lines,  thy  virtues  and  my  love, 
Love  ever  burning  in  this  heart  of  hearts. 


Ye,  too,  my  tuneful  sports,  my  boyhood's  songs, 
If  ye  dare  hope  to  reach  far  distant  years, 
Outliving  your  frail  author's  funeral  pile, 
Nor  lost  in  the  cold  shades  of  black  oblivion, 
Gro  forth  and  bear,  to  manv  a  comma:  ag-e, 
This  father's  name,  and  nobleness,  and  worth, 
A  light  to  beam  on  fathers  yet  unborn. 


112 


THE    MOURNING    FOR    BION 


FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  MOSCHUS. 


The  poet  Bion  was  born  at  Smyrna,  on  the  banks  of  the  Meles,  a  river 
which  Homer's  residence  or  birth  in  Ionia  had  before  ennobled.  He  wrote 
pastorals  in  the  Doric  dialect,  lived  in  Sicily,  and  died  by  poison  about 
the  third  century  before  Christ.  The  idyl  of  Moschus,  which  laments 
his  death,  is  justly  celebrated  for  its  poetical  imagery.  It  is  also  well 
lifted,  by  its  tone  of  melancholy  despair,  to  show  us  how  much  revelation 
has  done  for  man  in  scattering  the  darkness  which  hung  over  the  life  to 


Mourn,  mourn,  ye  leafy  dells  and  Doric  waters ! 

Ye  rivers  weep  for  Bion,  loved  and  lost. 

Be  sad  ye  plants ;  ye  wide  old  forests,  groan. 

Breathe  out  your  scents,  0  flowers,  from  drooping  clusters. 

Blush  sorrowfully,  ye  roses :  bow  thy  head 

In  beauteous  woe,  thou  starr'd  anemone : 

Sweet  hyacinth,  make  now  thy  letters  speak, 

And  let  those  characters,  so  fraught  with  grief, 

More  thickly  fall  on  every  shining  petal. 

Bion,  the  peerless  melodist,  is  dead. 


THE   MOURNING   FOR   BION.  113 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses ! 
Ye  nightingales,  complaining  in  dark  leaves, 
Tell  the  Sicilian  streams  of  Aretlmsa, 
The  shepherd  Bion  lives  and  sings  no  more : 
Say  that  with  him  our  mirth  and  music  fled ; 
Say  that  with  him  the  Doric  song  expird. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses ! 
Ye  swans  of  Strymon,  mourn  beside  your  waves. 
Chant,  with  low  voice,  a  melancholy  strain, 
A  wild  and  liquid  strain,  like  that  which  Bion 
Was  wont  to  sing  with  lips  that  rivall'd  yours. 
Go,  tell  the  young  and  fair  CEagrian  virgins, 
Tell  all  the  Nymphs  by  Bistonis'  clear  lake, 
The  Orpheus  of  the  Dorian  isle  is  dead. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 

The  darling  of  the  herds  no  longer  sings : 

He  sits  no  more  beneath  the  broad  lone  oaks, 

Weaving  his  verse,  but,  in  the  realms  below, 

Warbles  for  Pluto  some  Lethean  hymn. 

Our  hills  are  mute ;  the  wandering  heifer  pines, 

And  spurns  the  pastures  of  the  fresh  cool  glade. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 
Apollo  wept  himself  thy  speedy  fate ; 


114  THE   MOURNING   FOR   BIOX. 

Apollo  wept  thee,  Bion  ;     Satyrs  griev'd, 

And  dark  Priapus  made  loud  moan  for  thee. 

Pan  seeks  thy  lay  with  sighing  ;  fountain  Nymphs 

Did  sob  for  thee  in  every  greenwood  shade, 

And  ail  their  flowing  costal  turn'd  to  tears. 

In  the  tall  rocks  Echo  deplores  thy  silence, 

And  sports  not  with  thy  strain :  at  thy  departure 

The  trees  all  shed  their  fruits,  the  flowers  all  witherd, 

The  milk  no  longer  stream'd  from  the  mild  ewe ; 

The  honey  from  the  hive ;  in  the  wax'd  cell 

It  darkly  perish'd.     Who  would  gather  sweets 

In  that  black  hour  when  thy  rare  sweetness  fled? 


Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 

Never  beside  the  murmuring  ocean-beach 

Did  dolphins  grieve  so  loudly ;  never  yet 

So  loudly  did  the  plaintive  nightingale 

Mourn  on  the  cliffs  ;  never,  in  such  deep  sorrow, 

Scream'd  the  shrill  swallows  on  the  desert  mountains ; 

Not  thus  for  sad  Alcyone  called  Ceyx  : 

Not  the  swift  ciris  on  the  gleaming  billows, 

Nor  that  strange  bird  which  flies  round  Memnon's  tomb, 

With  dirges  for  Aurora's  warrior  Son, 

In  fragrant  valleys  of  the  golden  morn, 

Ever  sent  up  such  piercing  sounds  of  woe, 

As  when  they  mourn'd  for  Bion's  early  death. 


THE   MOURNING   FOR   BION.  11 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 

The  nightingales  and  swallows,  which  he  charnvd 

And  taught  to  speak,  sat  gather 'd  on  the  boughs, 

Lamenting  with  each,  other :  sorrowing  birds 

Of  meaner  tribes  replied  :  nor  ye  forget, 

In  saddening  tones,  0  doves,  to  mourn  his 'fall. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 

Who  now  will  draw  glad  sounds  from  thy  mute  pipe. 

Thou  thrice  deplor'd  ?     Who  now  will  touch  the  reeds, 

That  whisper  still  of  thy  sweet  lips  and  breath, 

And  still  give  out  faint  murmurs  of  thy  lay  ? 

We  yield  that  pipe  to  Pan,  though  Pan,  perchance, 

Will  fear  to  press  thy  syrinx  with  his  mouth, 

Lest  he  be  judg'd  to  strive  in  vain  with  thee. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 

Lorn  Galatea  weeps  thy  music  hush'd; 

She  that  once  came,  entranc'd  by  those  wild  numbers, 

And  sat  beside  thee  on  the  wave- worn  shore : 

Thou  wast  no  piping  Cyclops :  him  in  haste 

Fair  Galatea  fled,  but  smifd  on  thee, 

Rising  in  beauty  from  the  foaming  deep  ; 

And  now,  forgetful  of  her  ocean  caves, 

She  sits  in  tears  upon  the  lonely  sands, 

Or  tends  the  flock  which  droops  since  thou  art  gone. 


116  THE   MOURNING   FOR   BIOX. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses ! 
Shepherd,  the  Muses'  gifts  all  lied  with  thee. 
With  thee  the  joys  and  hopes  of  youth  departed, 
And  sorrowing  Cupids  weep  around  thy  tomb. 
Yenus  loves  thee  far  more  than  that  warm  kiss, 
With  which  she  kiss'd  Adonis  as  he  died. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses! 

Most  musical  of  streams,  this  second  pain, 

This  pain  renew'd,  0  Meles,  must  be  thine. 

Thy  glorious  Homer  perish'd  long  ago, 

That  sweet  Mouth  of  Calliope  ;  that  son 

Whom  thou  didst  seek  with  floods  that  wail'd  aloud, 

With  grief  for  whom  thou  filledst  all  the  sea. 

They  bid  thee  now  bewail  another  child, 

They  see  thee  wasted  with  a  new  regret. 

Both  were  most  dear  to  fountains :  that  did  quaff 

The  pure  deep  wave  of  sacred  Hippocrene : 

This  dipped  his  cup  in  sparkling  Arethusa ; 

That  sang  of  Helen,  Tyndareus'  fair  daughter, 

Of  Menelaus,  Atreus'  valiant  heir, 

And  that  great  chief  whom  seaborn  Thetis  bore : 

This  sang  not  wars  and  woes,  but  told  of  Pan, 

And  join'd  smooth  reeds,  and  milk'd  his  gentle  flock : 

He  tended  herds,  and  sang  the  cares  of  herdsmen  ; 

He  taught  Love's  wiles,  and  cherish'd  Love's  quick  fire 

Deep  in  his  heart,  and  pleas 'd  Love's  matchless  queen. 


THE    MOURNING   FOR   BION.  117 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses ! 

Thee,  Bion,  all  the  noble  cities  mourn. 

Ascra  laments  thee  more  than  her  own  Hesiod ; 

Bceotia's  woods  long  not  for  Pindar  so. 

Xot  thus  the  pleasant  Lesbos  wail'd  Alcseus, 

Nor  Teos  thus  her  lost  Anacreon  wept : 

Paros  in  thee  forgets  Archilochus, 

And  Mitylene*  still  desires  thy  song 

Above  her  Sappho's.     Every  shepherd  poet, 

Whose  mouth  the  Muses  fill  with  lofty  strains, 

Thinks  with  wet  eyes  of  thee  thus  early  gone. 

Thee,  stricken  in  thy  prime,  Sicelides, 

The  light  of  Samos,  weeps :  thee  Lycidas, 

Whose  laugh  and  jest  made  glad  the  bold  Cydonians, 

Recalls  with  tears :  thee,  where  swift  Hales  flows, 

In  realms  of  Triopas,  Philetas  mourns  : 

Thee,  by  the  sea-girt  towers  of  Syracuse, 

Theocritus  deplores.     I  too  for  thee 

"Wake  the  loud  dirges  of  Ausonia's  sorrow ; 

I,  not  a  stranger  to  bucolic  song ; 

I,  who  receiv'd  from  thee  that  Doric  verse, 

Which  thou  didst  teach,  a  rich  inheritance ; 

I,  whom  thou  honoredst  above  other  men, 

Leaving  to  them  thy  gold,  to  me  thy  lore. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses ! 
Alas !  alas  !  the  mallows  in  the  garden, 


118  THE   MOUEXIXG   FOR   BIOX. 

The  low  green  parsley  and  the  fresh  crisp  dill — 
The  frailest  herbs,  that  wither,  live  again, 
And  spring  with  joy  to  meet  a  coming  year ; 
But  we,  the  great,  the  valiant,  and  the  wise, 
Once  dead,  sleep  senseless  in  the  dark  cold  earth, 
A  long,  long  dreary  sleep,  that  brings  no  waking : 
Thou  too  shalt  slumber,  voiceless  in  the  dust ; 
And  yet  the  Nymphs  forbid  not  the  dull  frog 
To  croak  for  ever  in  one  hoarse  harsh  strain, 
At  war  alike  with  silence  and  with  song. 

Begin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses ! 
Did  poison  kill  thee,  Bion,  did  fell  poison 
Touch  thy  bland  lips,  nor  lose  its  deadly  force  ? 
Who  so  deprav'd  could  mix  that  draught  for  thee, 
Could  hear  thee  speak,  and  then  could  see  thee  drink 
"Who  thus  defied  the  magic  of  thy  words  ? 

Bagin  your  wail,  begin,  Sicilian  Muses  ! 

Justice  finds  all  :  Bow'd  down  in  sore  distress, 

I  grieve  for  thy  sad  fate  ;  but,  could  I  go, 

As  Orpheus  went,  to  deep  dark  Tartarus, 

As  great  Alcides,  as  Ulysses  went, 

I  too  would  enter  Pluto's  dread  domain, 

To  learn  if  there  thou  singest  aught  for  Pluto, 

And  hear  thy  lay.     Do  thou  to  Proserpine 

Repeat  some  old  Sicilian  pastoral ; 


THE   MOURNING   FOP.   BION.  119 

Kemind  her  of  her  own  Sicilian  birth, 

And  how  she  gamboll'd,  warbling  Doric  odes, 

In  flowery  vales  of  JEtna.     She  will  greet 

The  welcome  mnsic  of  thy  Doric  strain, 

Nor  leave  thy  tuneful  labors  nnrepaid ; 

And,  as  she  once  gave  back  Eurydice, 

Moved  by  the  strings  which  weeping  Orpheus  swept, 

She  will  relent,  and  send  thee,  too,  0  Bion, 

Back  to  thy  mountains.     But,  had  I  the  power 

To  fill  the  speaking  reeds,  I  fain  would  sing 

In  Pluto's  halls,  to  bid  thee  live  once  more. 


120 


SPRING-TIME    AND    SONG 


FKOM  THE  GKEEK  OF  MELEAGER. 


The  rains  and  storms  of  winter  all  are  past, 

And  pnrple  Spring  is  come  with  smiles  and  flowers. 

The  dark  Earth  now  puts  on  its  pure  green  crown 

Of  early  grass :  the  tender  plants  arise, 

Gay  with  young  leaves  :  the  radiant  meadows  laugh, 

And  blithely  drink  the  bright  fresh  dews  of  morn, 

Sweet  morn,  that  fills  the  springing  herbs  with  life. 

The  soft  wind  bears  rich  spoils  from  new-born  roses. 

The  shepherd  on  the  mountain-side  is  glad, 

Waking  his  reeds  ;  the  goatherd  sees  with  joy 

His  fair  white  kidlings  frisking  in  the  vale. 

The  mariner,  far  out  on  the  wide  sea, 

Swells  his  broad  canvass  with  light  western  breezes. 

The  rustic  youth,  in  honor  of  that  God, 

Who  loads  with  clustering  grapes  the  fruitful  vine, 

Now  bind  their  heads  with  flowering  ivy  wreaths. 


SPKIXG-TIME   AND   SONG.  121 

Their  own  rare  works  supply  the  cheerful  bees 

With  welcome  toil.     Lo,  gather'd  on  the  hive 

In  busy  troops,  the  murmuring  architects 

Build  up  of  sweet  clear  wax  their  fragrant  cells. 

The  tuneful  birds  make  music  all  about ; 

The  halcyons  by  the  wave,  the  quick  loud  swallows 

Eound  the  deep  eaves,  the  swan  beside  the  river, 

The  nightingale  unseen  in  copse  or  grove. 

And  now,  when  plants  unfold  their  tender  leaves, 

When  flowers  are  all  in  bloom,  when  shepherds  pipe, 

And  happy  flocks  are  out  on  every  field  ; 

When  sailors  plough  the  deep,  when  Bacchus  dances, 

When  birds  pour  melody  from  brake  and  stream, 

And  bees  are  humming  at  their  pleasant  labors, 

Must  not  the  poet,  too,  rejoice  and  sing  ? 


122 


SEA    A  X  D    LAND 


FROM    THE     GREEK    OF     MOSCHUS. 


When  the  light  wind  sports  on  the  summer  sea, 
I  chide  my  fears  and  leave  the  sultry  land, 
Won  by  the  smiling  of  those  peaceful  waters : 
But,  when  the  rous'd  depths  shout,  when  angry  surges 
Lift  their  white  heads,  and  rough  loud  billows  rage, 
I  look  around  for  grass  and  trees,  and  shun 
The  vex'd  salt  waves.     To  me  the  steadfast  shore 
Is  then  thrice  beauteous,  and  the  wild  dark  wood 
Pleases  me  best,  for  there,  when  winds  are  high, 
The  tall  pine  sings.     A  fisherman,  methinks, 
Leads  a  most  dreary  life,  his  house  a  boat, 
His  field  the  deep,  and  wandering  fish  his  game. 
Be  mine  to  muse  or  slumber  where  the  plane-tree 
Spreads  its  fresh  leaves ;  let  me  lie  down  on  flowers, 
Lulfd  by  the  warbling  of  some  swift  bright  stream, 
Which,  all  unseen  among  the  rocks  and  bushes, 
Soothes  the  tired  woodman  and  makes  sweet  his  rest. 


123 


THE    GOLDEN    YEESES    OF    PYTHAGOKAS. 


FROM  THE    GREEK. 


These  verses  are  named  after  Pythagoras,  not  as  having  been  writ- 
ten by  the  Samian  philosopher,  but  as  exhibiting  his  moral  system 
in  a  form  at  once  brief  and  complete.  They  are,  however,  of  great 
antiquity.  To  understand  them  fully,  the  reader  must  bear  in  mind 
that  Pythagoras  and  his  followers  recognized,  between  the  Creator 
and  man,  three  classes  of  spiritual  beings,  Gods,  Demons,  and 
Heroes,  and  taught  that  they  should  all  be  worshipped  as  the  laws 
might  direct.  Next  to  Heroes  they  ranked  parents  and  lawgivers. 
They  likewise  believed  that  all  things  are  controlled  by  Necessity, 
that  numbers,  especially  the  number  Four,  have  mysterious  pro- 
perties ;  and  that  the  human  soul,  proceeding  from  the  Supreme 
Intelligence,  returns  to  Him,  at  last,  after  many  cleansings  and 
transmigrations.  So  great  was  the  reverence  which  the  Pytha- 
goreans had  for  their  master,  that  they  frequently  swore  by  him,  of 
which  practice  an  example  occurs  in  this  poem.  These  points  alone 
seem  to  need  explanation  ;  and  though,  when  examined  in  the  light 
of  Christianity,  the  doctrines  of  the  Grecian  sage  are  found  to  be 
defective  and  erroneous,  we  must  still  confess  that,  coming  from  the 
depth  of  heathenism,  these  "Golden  Verses"  are  very  remarkable. 

First,  worship  tliou  the  never-dying  Gods, 
As  reason  bids,  and  sacred  laws  ordain  : 
4  Observe  thine  oath,  revere  illustrious  Heroes, 
And  spirits  wise  and  excellent  on  Earth, 
Great  souls  whose  edicts  mark  thou  and  obey. 


124    THE  GOLDEN  VERSES  OF  PYTHAGORAS. 

Honor  and  love  thy  parents  and  thy  kindred, 

And  make  of  others  him  thy  second  self, 

"Whose  noble  acts  declare  him  chief  in  worth. 

Yield  to  kind  words  and  profitable  deeds, 

Nor  hate  thy  friend  for  every  slight  offence. 

Forgive,  forgive  him,  if  thon  canst : — the  power 

Is  often  barr'd  by  strong  Necessity. 

Be  thou  full  soon  innr'd  to  curb  and  master 

Gross  appetite,  sleep,  anger,  loose  desires. 

Do  nothing  base  with  others  or  alone, 

And  most  of  all  have  reverence  for  thyself. 

In  word  and  deed  be  thou  severely  just ; 

Cast  off  imprudence  from  thy  breast  and  tongue, 

And  know  that  thou  and  all  are  doom'd  to  die. 

Seek  now  to  gather  gold  and  now  to  scatter. 

Of  woes  and  pains,  that  come  to  mortals  here 

From  Heaven's  appointments,  take  thy  destin'd  portion 

With  lowly  fortitude,  nor  once  repine. 

Heal  sufferings  if  thou  canst,  but  still  be  sure 

Fate  gives  not  many  to  the  truly  wise. 

Words  good  and  bad  are  in  the  mouths  of  men, 

Which  hear  thou  not  with  awe  nor  yet  with  scorn. 

Endure  with  meekness  falsehood  boldly  spoken, 

And  let  this  mind  be  seen  in  all  thy  ways, 

That  none  by  threats  or  blows,  by  frowns  or  smiles,  - 

By  smooth  persuasion  or  by  stern  command, 

Shall  make  thee  say  or  do  what  is  not  best. 


THE  GOLDEX  VERSES  OF  PYTHAGORAS.    125 

Think,  and  then  act,  lest  shameful  works  be  thine. 

Fools  speak  and  act,  and  then  perchance  reflect. 

Aiming  at  that  which  brings  no  long  repentance, 

Dare  nought  in  ignorance,  but  learn  before, 

What  things  each  rightful  enterprise  may  need  : 

Do  this,  and  thou  shalt  spend  a  happier  life. 

Discreetly  mindful  of  thy  strength  and  health, 

In  meats,  drinks,  sports  and  labors,  shun  extremes : 

Fair  temperance  bequeaths  us  no  regrets. 

Let  all  thy  food  be  pure  and  SAveetly  simple ; 

Flee  sordid  meals  and  sumptuous  luxuries : 

Do  nothing  which  can  stir  up  wrath  or  envy, 

Nor  lavish  wealth,  reckless  of  place  or  time, 

As  one  who  spurns  high  thoughts  and  lofty  deeds. 

Yet,  be  thou  not  ungenerous  : — keep,  in  all  things, 

The  mean,  the  golden  mean: — Do  that  alone, 

Which  harms  thee  not : — plan  well  axd  thex  perform. 

When  morning  comes,  and  flushes  the  dark  East, 
Think  thou  what  innocent  labors  claim  the  day, 
Lest  hours  misspent  leave  but  remorse  behind ; 
Nor  let  soft  slumber  seal  thine  eyes  at  eve, 
Till  thou  have  thrice  review'd  each  separate  act, 
Which  mark'd  thy  moments  since  the  rosy  dawn. 
Where  have  I  sinrtd?      What  have  I  done?      What  duty 
To  man  or  God  have  I  left  unfulfilVd? 
Note  thus,  from  first  to  last,  thy  daily  works ; 


126    THE  GOLDEN  VERSES  OF  PYTHAGORAS. 

Then,  if  those  works  were  evil,  chicle  and  mourn  them 
But,  if  they  lean'd  to  right,  do  thou  rejoice. 
This  course  pursue  with  ceaseless  toil  and  care, 
This  try  to  love : — this,  only  this  can  place  thee 
In  the  bright  track  of  pure  and  heavenly  virtue  ; 
Yes,  by  that  sage,  who  taught  these  souls  of  ours, 
With  learning  from  on  high,  the  sacred  FOUR, 
Mysterious  source  of  ever-flowing  nature. 
Begin  thy  task  with  earnest  pra}^er  for  aid : 
That  aid  once  thine,  all  doubts  and  dangers  end. 
The  frame  and  state  alike  of  men  and  Gods 
Shall  thus  reveal  to  thee  their  hidden  wonders. 
Thus  shalt  thou  scan,  with  wisdom  calm  and  deep, 
The  breadth  and  limits  of  created  things. 
Thus  shalt  thou  see,  so  far  as  Heaven  allows, 
Nature  the  same  in  every  age  and  realm 
Of  this  wide  universe,  nor  vainly  wish, 
For  that  which  thou  must  never  hope  to  win. 
No  lore  shall  thus  evade  thee : — thou  shalt  learn 
How  millions  writhe  in  ills  of  their  own  choosing. 
Unhappy  mortals  who,  with  good  at  hand, 
Nor  see  nor  hear  it ! — Few,  alas,  how  few 
Dream  of  deliverance  from  their  endless  griefs ; 
So  dire  a  fate  inthralls  and  blinds  their  souls. 
As  rollers  wheel'd  from  rugged  stone  to  stone, 
They  rush  from  woe  to  woe,  nor  once  find  rest. 


THE  GOLDEN  VERSES  OF  PYTHAGORAS.    127 

Strife,  inborn  strife,  still  walks  with  them  unseen, 

Fretting  their  peace  and  troubling  all  their  joys, 

Strife,  which  to  flee  were  more  than  triumph  gain'cl. 

Father  Supreme,  wouldst  Thou  but  show  weak  man 

What  mind  and  state  are  his,  Thou  couldst  remove 

Sorrows  which  none  may  count,  and  all  must  bear. 

Yet  faint  not  thou  who  toilest  here  below, 

Nor  once  despond : — man  has  a  birth  divine. 

Nature  for  him  unfolds  her  sacred  page, 

And  fills  his  heart  with  wisdom  : — Of  that  wisdom 

If  thou  hast  share,  thou  wilt  hold  fast  for  ever 

These  pearls  of  truth,  these  brief  and  wholesome  counsels 

So  shall  thy  soul  have  health,  and  thou  repose. 

Flee  then  the  words,  and  thoughts,  the  meats  and  deeds 

Which  virtue  blames: — Be  strong  and  choose  aright, 

In  thy  lustrations  and  thy  soul's  release. 

Weigh  well  each  act : — let  thy  best  judgment  rule 

Within  thy  mind,  a  faithful  charioteer. 

So,  when  thou  shalt  put  off  those  wasting  limbs, 

And  pass  afar  into  the  free  broad  ether, 

Loos'd  from  the  bonds  of  frail  humanity, 

Thou  shalt  live  ox  immortal  and  divine. 


128 


THE    MOST    WELCOME    SEASON. 


A  DIALOGUE   BETWEEN  CLEODEMUS   AND   MYRSOX. 


FROM    THE   GEEEK   OF    BIONT. 


CLEODEMUS. 


Tell  me,  0  Myrsox,  what  is  the  one  season, 
Which  thou  wouldst  choose  in  all  the  circling  year 
What  season  dost  thou  most  desire  to  come  ? 
Is  it  the  Summer,  when  our  heaviest  toils 
In  orchard,  field,  and  garden,  all  are  ended  ? 
Is  it  the  rich  sweet  Autumn,  when  our  farms 
Give  us  their  wealth,  and  bid  lean  Hunger  flee  ? 
Is  it  the  Winter,  made  for  ease  and  mirth, 
The  frosty  winter,  when  whole  households  sit 
Eound  the  warm  hearth  in  festive  idleness  ? 
Or  dost  thou  rather  prize  the  beautiful  Spring? 
Say,  Myrsox,  which  of  these  thy  soul  prefers : 
An  hour,  spent  here  beside  the  forest  brook, 
On  this  fresh  bank,  invites  discourse  or  song. 


THE   MOST  WELCOME   SEASON.  129 


MYRSOX. 

It  ill  becomes  us,  frail  and  erring  mortals, 
To  judge  or  blame  the  gifts  or  works  of  God : 
They  all  are  just  and  noble,  fair  and  holy. 
Yet,  Cleodemus,  since  thou  fain  wouldst  learn, 
Thou  shalt  be  told  what  season  I  love  best. 
I  wish  not  for  the  Summer,  when  the  sun 
Must  fiercely  scorch  me :  Autumn  often  hides 
Beneath  its  ripen'd  fruits  disease  and  death. 
I  fear  to  brave  the  dark  and  stormy  Winter, 
The  time  of  ice  and  sleet,  of  rain  and  snow. 
Would  that  the  golden  Spring,  thrice  loved  and  lovely 
Were  present  with  us  through  the  long  bright  year ! 
Then  cold  and  heat  are  both  alike  unknown, 
Then  all  is  life,  then  beauteous  things  burst  forth, 
And  Heaven  vouchsafes,  with  equal  night  and  day, 
To  bless  our  toils  and  make  our  hearts  rejoice. 


130 


A   LAMENT   FOR   BISHOP   ANDREWS. 

FROM   THE    LATIN   OF    MILTON. 


Lancelot  Andrews,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  eminent  alike  in  ability, 
learning,  and  virtue,  died  on  the  21st  of  September,  1626.  The 
plague  mentioned  in  this  poem  is  that  of  1625,  which  carried  off 
more  than  thirty-five  thousand  inhabitants  of  London. 

I  SAT  alone  in  silence  and  in  sorrow, 

For  melancholy  days  bad  long  been  mine, 

When,  like  some  winter  cloud 'that  pours  its  bail 

On  bligbted  pastures,  rose  the  sad  remembrance 

Of  ills  which  wasting  pestilence  had  brought 

On  this  fair  realm  of  England.     Death  has  climb'd 

The  lofty  towers  of  nobles,  bearing  high 

His  black  funereal  torch  ;  strong  Death  has  enter 'd 

Walls  starr'd  with  gold  and  jasper,  and  mow'd  down 

Whole  troops  of  satraps.     I  bethought  me  too 

Of  those  in  other  lands  whom  all  deplore, 

Of  Brunswick's  Duke,  and  Mansfeldt's  valiant  Count, 

True  brothers  in  great  deeds,  doom'd  each  to  burn 

On  his  untimely  pyre ;  I  mus'd  on  heroes, 


A   LAMENT   FOR   BISHOP   ANDREWS.  131 

Brave  men  whom  warlike  Belgium  lost  and  wept: 
But,  grieving  most  for  thee,  thou  sacred  chief, 
Once  deem'd  of  Winchester  the  light  and  pride, 
With  many  a  tear  I  breath'd  this  vain  lament. 

11  0  Death,  thou  next  in  place  to  ruthless  Pluto, 

Is  it  not  then  enough  that  the  wide  forest 

Must  feel  thy  wrath ;  that  power  to  thee  is  given 

Over  the  grassy  meads ;  that,  touch'd  by  thee, 

The  lily  droops,  the  golden  crocus  withers, 

The  glad  young  roses  fall  ?     Wilt  thou  forbid 

The  giant  oak,  beside  its  own  loved  river, 

To  see  the  pleasant  waters  gliding  by  ? 

The  birds,  that  range  the  waste  and  liquid  ether, 

Fate's  airy  prophets,  fear  thy  bitter  shafts : 

To  thee  the  beasts  that  prowl  in  pathless  woods, 

And  those  mute  herds  that  wily  Proteus  keeps 

In  sunless  ocean  caves,  all  trembling  haste, 

A  countless  multitude,  and  own  thy  might. 

Why  then,  most  envious  one,  thy  sway  thus  ample, 

Wilt  thou  yet  stain  those  hands  with  human  gore  ? 

Why  rudely  pierce  the  good  man's  noble  breast, 

And  chase  afar  a  spirit  half  divine  ?" 

While  thus  I  wept  and  wail'd,  oppress'd  with  woe, 
The  dewy  star  of  eve  look'd  smiling  forth 


132  A   LAMENT   FOR   BISHOP   ANDREWS. 

From  Western  skies,  and  the  refulgent  sun, 

His  journey  from  the  glowing  East  completed, 

Had  sunk  beneath  the  wide  and  stormy  sea, 

Which  breaks  on  high  Tartessus.     Worn  and  sad, 

I  sought  escape  from  pain  in  balmy  sleep  : 

But,  when  still  night  had  seal'd  my  swimming  eyes, 

I  roam'd  at  large  a  broad  and  fruitful  land, 

A  land,  whose  rare  and  radiant  loveliness 

No  words  of  mine  can  ever  fitly  paint. 

That  glorious  realm  was  flush'd  with  purple  light, 

As  far-off  mountains  redden  with  the  dawn  ; 

And,  as  when  rainbows  open  all  their  treasures, 

So  blaz'd  the  ground  with  rich  and  varied  hues. 

Not  with  so  lavish  wealth  did  Flora  dress 

The  gardens  of  Alcinous,  sweet  Flora, 

She  whom  the  West  wind  loved.     Meandering  there 

Eivers  of  crystal  cleave  the  blooming  plains, 

Eivers,  whose  sands  outflame  the  virgin  gold, 

Which  the  dark  Tagus  hides  beneath  its  flood. 

There  the  light  Western  breeze  for  ever  wanders 

Through  blissful  vales,  the  soft  and  joyous  breeze, 

Born  in  fresh  fields  of  roses.     Such,  they  feign, 

In  the  rich  East,  fast  by  the  sacred  Granges, 

Gleams  the  proud  dwelling  of  the  Morning  Star. 

While,  with  deep  wonder,  straying  in  the  shade, 

I  mark  the  clusters  of  the  laden  vines, 

And  all  that  heavenly  clime,  behold,  our  lost  one, 


A    LAMENT   FOR   BISHOP   ANDREWS.  133 

He  whom  we  mourn  goes  by  me ;  from  his  brow 

A  strange  effulgence  beams  ;  his  long  white  robe 

Flows,  like  a  meteor,  down  to  reach  the  gold, 

That  sandals  his  bright  feet ;  about  his  head 

A  snowy  fillet  shines,  and,  as  he  walks, 

The  turf  grows  fairer,  and  the  flowers  rejoice. 

Celestial  hosts,  with  starry  wings,  applaud, 

And  the  deep  ether  rings  with  the  loud  trumpet, 

"Which  tells  of  triumph  gain'd.     Each  chief  of  Heaven 

Greets  his  new  brother  with  embrace  and  song, 

While  One,  of  loftier  brow  and  grander  aspect, 

Speaks  to  the  righteous  stranger  these  sweet  words ; 

"  Come  thou,  my  son,  and  share  the  lasting  joys 

Of  this  thy  Father's  kingdom ;  be  thou  freed 

Henceforth  eternally  from  toil  and  pain." 

He  ceas'd  : — the  bright  troop  beat  their  psalteries, 

And  at  the  sound  my  welcome  vision  fled. 

I  woke  and  mourn'd  for  sleep  too  soon  departed. 

May  dreams  like  this,  0  God,  each  night  be  mine. 


131 


THE     TWO     FISHERMEN 

FROM    THE   GREEK   OF   THEOCRITUS. 


This  idyl,  addressed  by  Theocritus  to  his  friend  Diophantus,  is  re- 
markable as  the  one  ancient  poem,  in  which  the  life  of  a  Greek  fisher- 
man is  described. 

Want  calls  up  all  our  arts,  0  Diophantus, 
Want,  of  hard  toil  the  teacher :  wasting  cares 
Steal  from  laborious  thousands  needful  rest. 
When,  with  closed  eyes,  we  seek  from  drowsy  night 
Some  peaceful  hours  of  sweet  forgetfulness, 
Grief  comes  in  troubled  dreams  that  ruin  sleep. 

Two  fishermen,  with  hairs  made  white  by  time, 

Lay  down  together,  on  the  crisp  dry  sea-moss 

Strown  by  the  leafy  wall,  beneath  a  shed 

Of  woven  boughs.     Round  them  were  loosely  rang'd 

Their  implements  of  labor,  rods,  hooks,  baits, 

Cords,  hairlines,  weels,  oars,  sheepskins,  snares  of  rushes 

Fashion'd  in  many  an  artful  labyrinth ; 

While,  close  at  hand,  upon  its  rough  tall  props, 

Hung  an  old  skiff,  with  sharp  and  rounded  prow. 


THE   TWO   FISHERMEN.  L35 

Under  their  heads  were  piled  their  scant  sea-cloaks, 
Garments  and  caps.     This  was  their  only  wealth, 
To  fish  was  their  one  work.     All  else  seem'd  foreign 
To  that  rude  life :  nor  earthen  pot  was  theirs, 
Nor  household  dog.  Far  off  from  friends  or  neighbours, 
They  saw  their  days  go  past  in  loneliness, 
Deep  loneliness  and  hardship.     Bound  their  hut 
On  every  side  the  loud  sea  dash'd  and  foam'd. 
Short  was  their  slumber,  for,  before  the  moon 
Keach'd  her  mid  course,  stern  tasks  that  never  ceas'd 
Eous'd  them  to  labor.     Straightway  brushing  sleep 
From  half-shut  eyelids,  those  two  guileless  men 
Drew  from  each  other's  hearts,  in  friendly  speech, 
The  thoughts  and  words  that  form  this  simple  song. 

FIRST  FISHERMAN. 

They  speak  most  falsely,  who  declare  that  nights 
Grow  short  in  summer,  when  Jove  grants  long  days. 
I  have  already  look'd  on  countless  visions, 
And  yet  no  dawn  is  glimmering.     What  is  this  ? 
Does  memory  fail  to  lend  its  wonted  help  ? 
These  nights,  methinks,  are  wearisome  and  sad. 

SECOND  FISHERMAN. 

Asphalion,  thou  dost  blame  the  pleasant  summer 
With  no  just  reason.     Time  for  ever  keeps 


136  THE   TWO   FISHERMEN. 

Its  own  swift  changeless  course,  but  vexing  care 
Can  banish  rest  and  make  a  night  seem  long. 

FIRST  FISHERMAN. 

Hast  thou  been  taught  to  read  the  truth  of  dreams  ? 

Mine  was  a  joyful  one,  and  I  would  gladly 

Share  it  with  thee.     Partner  in  all  my  gains, 

Be  thou  partaker  of  my  visions  too. 

In  shrewdness  none  surpass  thee,  and  of  dreams 

He  needs  must  be  the  best  interpreter, 

Whose  clear  strong  mind  can  seize  their  meaning  best. 

Leisure  is  ours,  for  what  could  one  do  now, 

Sleepless  on  this  rough  bed  beside  the  waves  ? 

And  mark  how  brightly,  through  the  floating  mist, 

The  cheerful  fire  gleams  from  the  Prytaneum, 

To  fishermen  a  sign  of  rare  success. 

SECOND  FISHERMAN. 

Come  then,  since  speaking  thus  can  make  thee  happy 
Tell  thy  true  comrade  all  that  thou  hast  seen. 

FIRST  FISHERMAN. 

"When,  wearied  with  our  toiling  on  the  deep, 
I  laid  me  down  at  eventide  to  rest, 
Not  gorg'd  with  food,  for  thou  rememberest  well, 
How  light  and  frugal  was  our  latest  meal, 


THE   TWO   FISHERMEN.  137 

I  climb'd,  in  thought,  a  tall  and  wave-worn  cliff, 
And  sitting  there,  I  watch'd  full  eagerly 
The  finny  tribes.     From  my  long  fisher's  rod 
I  shook  the  luring  bait,  which  one  huge  monster, 
Wide  gaping,  rush'd  to  swallow.     Dogs  asleep 
All  dream  of  bones  or  bread,  and  I  of  fish. 
Torn  by  the  barb  he  redden'd  the  bright  waters, 
And  bent  with  wayward  strength  the  slender  reed ; 
While,  with  both  hands  I  wag'd  a  doubtful  strife, 
Resolv'd  to  draw  my  noble  prize  ashore, 
Yet  fearing  that  the  thin  worn  steel  must  break. 
Then,  mindful  of  his  wound,  I  said,  "  shalt  thou, 
Thus  pierc'd  thyself,  elude  and  conquer  mef" 
But  soon  I  pluck'd  my  vanquished  captive  in, 
With  this  right  arm,  and  saw  the  struggle  over. 
I  brought  to  land  a  great  and  golden  fish, 
Ay  !  one  all  cased  in  gold.    Awe  straight  oppress'd  me, 
Lest  this  might  prove  the  favorite  of  Neptune, 
Or  treasure  of  the  beauteous  Amphitrite. 
Lifting  him  softly  from  the  crimson  hook, 
Afraid  lest  the  rich  ore  about  his  mouth 
Might  stick  to  the  sharp  steel,  I  drew  him  far 
Up  the  dry  beach  with  ropes,  and  loudly  swore 
That  I  would  dwell  henceforth  on  the  firm  land, 
Nor  set  my  foot  again  on  the  rude  sea, 
But  revel  as  a  prince  with  this  my  gold. 
Those  thoughts  disturb 'd  my  bosom,  and  I  woke ; 

10 


1?8  THE   TWO   FISHERMEN, 

And  now,  my  friend,  advise  me  well  and  soon, 
For  that  rash  oath  yet  fills  my  soul  with  dread. 

SECOND  FISHERMAN. 

Be  not  afraid :  thou  didst  not  swear  at  all ; 

No  fish  of  gold  was  caught  or  seen  by  thee. 

Visions  are  false.     If  thou  wilt  closely  search 

That  self-same  place  by  daylight  and  awake, 

Thy  dream  may  do  thee  good.     Go,  seek  forthwith 

An  eatable  fish,  lest,  all  misled  by  shadows, 

Thou  yet  die  starv'd,  though  rich  in  golden  dreams, 


139 


THE    DISTAFF 


FROM    THE    GREEK   OF    THEOCRITUS. 


Theocritus,  when  about  to  sail  from  Syracuse  to  Miletus,  wrote 
this  idyl  on  the  distaff  which  he  took  with  him,  as  a  gift  for  Theu- 
genis,  the  wife  of  his  friend  Nicias  the  physician. 

Pure  distaff,  form'd  for  spinning,  holy  gift 
Of  blue-eyed  sage  Minerva,  thou  dost  well 
Befit  those  matrons,  whose  unwearied  worth 
Makes  houses  prosper.     Go,  then,  forth  with  me 
To  famed  Miletus,  Neleus'  ancient  City, 
Where  the  tall  fane  of  Paphian  Venus  stands 
Among  the  reeds.     Thither  I  beg  of  Jove 
A  swift  and  happy  voyage.     There  I  long 
To  taste  the  joys  of  meet  companionship 
"With  Nicias,  whom  I  love,  a  sacred  branch 
Of  tuneful  graces.     Thee  so  finely  carved 
By  skilful  hands,  from  choicest  ivory, 
I  fain  would  guard  for  Nicias'  peerless  wife : 
With  her  thou  shalt  accomplish  many  a  work 
Of  household  thrift,  stout  webs  to  wrap  the  limbs 
Of  strong  and  valiant  men,  and  light  blue  robes, 


140  THE   DISTAFF. 

Like  some  smooth  reach  of  liusli'd  Ionian  seas, 

For  sweet  Ionian  maidens.     Twice  a  year, 

May  gentle  ewes  their  soft  white  fleeces  yield, 

In  pastures  where  the  slow  Maeander  strays, 

For  blooming  Theugenis,  since  she  contemns  not 

Those  frugal  cares,  those  chaste  and  quiet  toils, 

"Which  virtuous  matrons  prize.     I  would  not  send  thee 

To  some  ignoble  home  of  sloth  and  pride, 

Thee  sprung  from  my  blest  land.     Thy  place  of  birth 

Was  Syracuse,  renown'd  for  blameless  men, 

Great  Syracuse,  which,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Corinthian  Archias  built, — rich  Syracuse, 

The  boast  of  all  our  wide  Trinacrian  Isle. 

Hereafter,  cherish 'd  at  the  stainless  hearth 

Of  one  well  vers'd  in  that  beneficent  art, 

"Which  bids  disease  and  wakeful  suffering  flee, 

Thou  shalt  dwell  nobly  where  Ionians  throng 

The  streets  of  proud  Miletus.     Theugenis 

Shall  sit  among  the  fair  Milesian  dames, 

Holding  a  well-wrought  distaff,  and  do  thou 

Eemind  her  of  the  guest  from  Arethusa, 

That  honor'd  in  his  heart  both  her  and  song. 

Looking  on  thee,  let  friend  say  thus  to  friend, — 

" A  little  gift  has  no  mean  grace.     All  things 

Are  precious,  when  they  speak  of  truth  and  love." 


141 


HEECULES  AND  HYLAS, 


FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  THEOCRITUS. 


This  idyl  was  addressed  to  Nicias  the  physician. 

Not  for  us  only,  Nicias,  as  we  thought, 

Was  born  a  child  to  Love's  immortal  sire, 

Whatever  god  may  claim  Love  as  his  own : 

Not  for  us  first  do  beautiful  things  look  fair, 

Us,  who  may  breathe  to-day  but  see  no  morrow. 

Amphitryon's  son,  with  heart  of  stubborn  brass, 

He,  that  withstood  Nemea's  forest-king, 

Loved  blooming  Hylas,  rich  in  curls  of  gold ; 

And,  as  a  father  trains  some  only  darling, 

Whose  dawn  gives  promise  of  a  radiant  day, 

He  taught  him  all  those  arts,  which  made  himself 

The  first  in  valor,  and  the  chief  in  fame. 

The  boy  left  not  his  side  at  sultry  noon, 

Or  when  Aurora,  with  her  swift  white  steeds, 

Scal'd  Jove's  high  realms,  or  when  the  murmuring  brood 

Went  to  their  rest,  what  time  the  parent  bird 


142  HERCULES  AND   HYLAS. 

Shook  her  loose  wings  upon  the  smoky  perch. 
Alcides  ever  toil'd  that  one  so  dear, 
Bbw'd  to  the  yoke,  nor  swerving  from  the  track, 
Arm'd  with  great  thoughts,  and  exercis'd  in  virtue, 
Might  prove  at  last,  in  word  and  deed — A  man. 

But,  when  brave  Jason,  iEson's  noble  heir, 
Sail'd  for  the  fleece  of  gold,  when  warlike  chiefs, 
The  lights  of  Hellas,  drawn  from  all  her  states, 
Pursued  with  him  the  prize  of  high  renown, 
Then  Hercules,  Alcmena's  hero  son, 
Went  with  glad  Hylas  to  the  rich  Iolcos, 
And  climb'd  the  sacred  Argo,  that  good  ship, 
Which  fail'd  not,  when  the  stern  Cyanean  crags 
Closed  on  her  billowy  path,  tmt  boldly  swept 
The  dark  vex'd  strait,  like  some  far-swooping  eagle, 
And,  bidding  those  black  cliffs  stand  fast  for  ever, 
Won  the  deep  Phasis  through  the  wrathful  main. 

When  now  the  Pleiades  arise,  and  lambs 
Feed  on  the  farthest  pastures,  when  the  spring, 
Wearing  away,  must  soon  give  place  to  summer, 
Those  godlike  men,  the  flower  of  Grecian  heroes, 
Are  mindful  of  their  voyage.     Seated  all 
In  that  swift  bark,  and  borne  by  southern  gales, 
Ere  the  third  sunset  dies  on  hills  of  Thrace, 
They  cleave  the  long  and  rock-girt  Hellespont, 
And  moor  their  ship  within  the  blue  Propontis, 


HERCULES   AND   HYLAS.  143 

Where  stout  Cianian  oxen  drag  the  plough 

Through  deep  broad  furrows.     Landing  on  the  beach 

At  eventide,  thej  spread  an  ample  feast, 

Some  rang'd  in  goodly  pairs,  but  more  have  gather'cl 

About  one  joyous  board,  for  a  smooth  mead 

Lies  with  its  grass  before  them,  and  presents 

Couches  all  fresh  and  sweet.     These,  mowing  down 

The  flowering  rushes  and  the  tall  sharp  sedge, 

Make  of  the  fragrant  heap  one  festive  seat : 

But  Hylas  pushing  back  his  golden  curls, 

Hastens,  with  brazen  pitcher,  from  the  shore, 

To  bring  cool  water  for  two  mighty  chiefs, 

For  Hercules  and  Telamon,  who  sat, 

Like  faithful  brothers,  always  at  one  board. 

Full  of  wild  mirth,  the  boy  goes  bounding  on 

Through  purple  flowers,  and  quickly  sees  a  fountain 

Shut  in  by  gentle  slopes.     Around  it  crowd 

The  spreading  bent,  and  dark-blue  celandine, 

Dry  maiden-hair,  moist  parsley,  all  green  herbs, 

That  rise  on  dewy  banks ;  but,  in  its  depths, 

The  Nymphs  have  rang'd  their  band — the  wakeful  Nymphs 

Whom  artless  rustics  dread,  Euneica,  Malis, 

And  fleet  Nycheia,  beautiful  as  Spring. 

While  now  the  youth  lets  down  his  large  bright  urn, 

Eager  to  dip  it  in  the  sparkling  wave, 

All  these  together  grasp  his  out-stretch'd  hand, 


14:4  HERCULES   AND   HYLAS. 

For  sudden  love  of  that  fair  Argive  boy 

Kindles  their  souls.     Pluck 'd  from  the  flowery  brink, 

Pie  falls  at  once  into  the  clear  still  waters, 

As  some  red  star  drops  from  unclouded  skies, 

Into  the  cold  dark  sea.     Meanwhile  the  pilot 

Spoke  from  the  broad-wing'd  Argo's  airy  poop  : 

u  Unmoor  the  ship,  make  sail,  ye  mariners, 

For  welcome  breezes  blow."     The  joyful  Nymphs 

Then  laid  their  captive  on  their  knees,  and  strove 

To  chase  with,  soothing  words  his  grief  away ; 

But  Hercules,  when  Hylas  came  not  back, 

Burst  madly  forth,  bearing,  as  Scythians  bear, 

In  his  left  hand  a  bow,  while  in  his  right 

He  swung  his  own  tough  knotted  club.     Three  times 

He  shouted  "  Hylas,"  in  a  voice  as  loud 

As  Ms  deep  throat  could  utter.     Hylas  thrice 

Did  answer,  but  the  sounds  came  faint  and  low 

From  the  dark  waters,  and,  though  close  at  hand, 

He  seem'd  far  distant.     As  a  bearded  lion, 

A  fierce  and  famish'd  lion,  that  has  heard 

A  fawn's  weak  cry  remote  on  desert  hills, 

Springs  from  his  lair  to  seize  a  ready  prey, 

So  Hercules,  rushing  through  rough  wide  brakes, 

Sought  the  lost  youth.     Alas,  for  those  who  love ! 

What  ills  he  brav'd,  among  the  woods  and  mountains, 

In  that  drear  search !  Jason  and  Jason's  tasks 


HERCULES   AND   HYLAS.  143 

"Were  nam'd  no  more.     In  vain  the  seaward  bark 
Stood  with  her  sail-yards  swinging  at  the  mast, 
And  youthful  shipmen  clean'd  the  decks  at  midnight. 
Waiting  for  Hercules.     He  roam'd  the  waste 
With  torn  and  bleeding  feet.     Love,  ruthless  Love 
Bent  his  great  heart,  and  left  him  no  repose. 

Thus  Hylas,  peerless  in  his  early  bloom, 

Is  rank'd  among  the  blest  and  deathless  gods  : 

But  all  his  mates  long  deem'd  the  chief  of  heroes 

A  false  deserter  of  his  ship,  the  one 

Who  left,  ere  danger  came,  the  well-bench'd  Argo. 

Yet  Hercules  prov?d  still  the  first  of  men, 

For,  crossing  many  a  rude  and  hostile  tribe, 

He  reach'd  alone  on  foot  the  perilous  land, 

Where  Colchian  Phasis  winds  its  full  pure  stream. 


UQ 


THE     BAED     OF     0  '  C  0  X  X  0  R 


Phelim  O'Coxxor  was  defeated  and  slain  at  Athunree,  by  William 
De  Burgho,  on  the  10th  of  August,  1315.  Edward  the  Second  then 
reigned  in  England.  The  last  stanza  can  he  applied,  with  justice, 
only  to  the  Ireland  of  the  past. 

He  stood  before  young  Edward's  throne, 

The  chief  of  Erin's  minstrel  band, 
O'Connor's  bard,  unpriz'd,  alone, 

A  captive  in  the  stranger's  land ; 
But  still  he  laugh'd  in  fierce  disdain, 

And  weav'd  full  oft  a  scornful  verse, 
Unmindful  of  the  spoiler's  chain, 

And  heedless  of  the  foeman's  curse. 

He  look'd  on  England's  cross  reveal'd, 

When  hosts  went  forth  in  martial  pride, 
And  thought  but  of  the  distant  field, 

On  which  his  king  and  kindred  died : 
He  gaz'd  on  England's  great  and  fair, 

In  many  a  proud  and  banner'd  hall, 
But  saw  no  grace  or  glory  there : 

He  mus'd  but  on  his  country's  fall. 


THE   BARD   OF   O'COXXOR.  147 

Who  shall  that  wayward  captive  blame 

Or  marvel  that  his  soul  abhorr'd 
Stern  men  who  loved  but  steel  and  flame, 

Apostles  of  the  torch  and  sword  ; 
Men,  whom  his  sires  had  ever  seen 

Where  bonds  were  forg'd  and  blood  was  spilt ; 
Whose  gift  to  him  and  his  had  been 

Long,  joyless  years  of  strife  and  guilt  ? 

He  wak'd,  at  last,  a  glorious  song, 

A  strain  of  ages  passed  away, 
While  yet  O'Connor's  house  was  strong, 

Nor  fear'd  De  Burgho's  iron  sway; 
He  thought  of  Erin,  spurn'd  and  crush'd, 

Her  mightiest  sons,  the  chain'd,  the  dead, 
And,  ere  the  trembling  chords  were  hush'd, 

That  minstrel's  lofty  spirit  fled. 

Nor,  Erin,  thou  his  loss  deplore, 

Nor  at  one  heart's  quench'd  hopes  repine : 
His  was  the  fate' of  thousands  more, 

The  blight  which  lies  on  all  that's  thine. 
The  galling  bond,  and  rebel's  tomb, 

Have  ever  been,  and  yet  must  be, 
The  sole  reward,  the  certain  doom, 

Of  him  who  dares  to  feel  for  thee. 


148 


A  SOLDIEK'S  TALE  OF  LOVE. 


The  wild  rose  laugh'd  in  its  early  bloom, 
The  blossom  bung  on  the  brier  and  broom, 
And  the  breeze  came  stealing  a  rich  perfume 

From  the  thyme  and  the  purple  clover ; 
The  clear  moon  look'd  on  the  grassy  dell, 
The  field  was  hush'd,  and  the  fresh  dew  fell, 
AVhen  I  bid  young  Edith  a  last  farewell, 

Whom  I  loved  in  the  days  which  are  over. 

We  sat  by  the  cottage  far  down  in  the  vale, 

And  we  talk'd  of  the  morrow,  with  sighing  and  wail, 

The  morrow,  which  call'd  me  from  fair  Innisfail, 

And  the  skies  which  bend  weeping  above  her. 
Sweet  daughter  of  Erin,  I  see  thee  yet ; 
Thy  brow  was  pale,  and  thy  cheek  was  wet : 
Long  years  have  fled,  but  I  never  forget 

That  grief  of  the  days  which  are  over. 


A  soldier's  tale  of  love.  149 

Time  pass'd  :  I  was  warring  with  ball  and  brand 
Where  Wellesley  led  in  the  Spaniard's  land ; 
And  I  seem'd,  when  arm'd  with  the  soldier  band, 

A  stern  and  a  careless  rover ; 
But  often,  chill'd  on  the  midnight  watch, 
I  thought  of  the  roof,  and  the  flowery  thatch, 
The  speaking  smile,  and  the  lifted  latch, 

That  I  loved  in  the  days  which  are  over. 

"When  the  foeman  fell,  and  the  volley'd  roar 
Of  his  battle  thunder  was  heard  no  more, 
I  trod  rejoicing  on  Ulster's  shore, 

With  the  pride  of  a  victor  lover. 
I  sought  her  dwelling :  the  flowers  were  strown  : 
Her  gray  sire  wept  at  his  hearth  alone  : 
She  was  sleeping  under  the  church-yard  stone, 

"Whom  I  loved  in  the  days  which  are  over. 


150 


A    TONGUE    FOE    HIKE 


A  BONG  FOR  THOSE   ' '  WnO  JUSTIFY  THE  WICKED  FOR  REWARD. ' 


A  toxgue  for  hibe  !  who  comes,  who  comes 
To  fee  this  weak  but  mighty  thing  ? 
You  call  for  trumpets,  fifes  and  drums, 
When  war's  loud  storm  is  gathering ; 
But  when  did  trumpet,  drum  or  fife, 
Bassoon  or  bagpipe,  steel  or  fire, 
Avail  like  this  in  scenes  of  strife  ? 
A  tongue  for  hire  !  a  tongue  for  hire  ! 


Art  thou  the  man  of  practis'd  guile, 
Whom  moral  triflers  name  a  cheat  ? 
Is  all,  that  they  deem  gross  and  vile, 
In  thy  sound  judgment  fair  and  sweet  ? 
Is  thine  a  load  of  guilt  untold, 
A  conscience  fill'd  with  bodings  dire  ? 
Fear  not  if  thou  hast  goods  or  gold  : 
These,  these  command  a  tongue  for  hire. 


A    TONGUE   FOE   HIRE.  151 


Hast  thou  withheld  a  brother's  right, 
And  stain'd  thy  hand  with  ink  or  blood, 
Pillag'd  and  burn'd  a  honse  by  night, 
Or  spoiFd  young  virtue's  bloom  and  bud  ? 


Those  noble  works  thou  shalt  not  rue, 
Though  fierce  assaults  thy  patience  tire  : — 
We  still  can  swear  or  buy  thee  through : 
Such  conquests  grace  a  tongue  for  hire. 

What,  though  some  stubborn  witness  rise, 
A  man  of  rude  and  rustic  ways, 
Some  quaint  old  wretch  that  never  lies, 
But  prates  of  justice,  kneels  and  prays  ! 
Should  his  plain  statement  threaten  woe, 
Thou  shalt  not  dread  the  graybeard  sire  ; 
We  two  will  rend  and  vex  him  so. 
"What  blade  stabs  best  ? — A  tongue  for  hire. 

If  judge  and  jury  both  condemn, 
Pressing  thy  freedom  or  thy  throat, 
No  hurt  shall  reach  thy  garment's  hem, 
If  thou  have  kept  thy — purse  or  vote. 
Stern  governors  grow  bland  or  blind, 
When  these  their  present  aid  require, 
As  thou  let  loose  from  gaol  shalt  find. 
What  breaks  all  bonds  ? — A  tongue  for  hire. 


152  A   TOXGUE   FOR  HIEE. 

Nor  sbalt  thou  wither  iD  the  shade, 
"When  sav'd  from  harsh  and  heartless  laws : 
Thou  shalt  the  purest  then  upbraid, 
And  win  the  people's  warm  applause. 
Thou  then  shalt  lecture,  rail,  declaim, 
An  eloquent  knave,  whom  all  admire  ; 
Shalt  turn  to  coin  past  deeds  of  shame, 
Thyself;  head,  hand,  and  tongue,  for  hire. 

Ye  too  that  now  but  muse  on  crime, 
Afraid  lest  men  your  thoughts  discover ; 
Come,  freely  choose  your  place  and  time, 
And  let  us  talk  such  matters  over. 
Strong  hints,  you  know,  must  serve  before, 
Lest  we  your  lawless  plans  inspire : 
That  knowledge  is  forbidden  lore, 
"Which  most  befits  a  tongue  for  hire. 

And  mark,  what  we  with  pride  confess, 
That,  since  it  touch'd  a  wisdom  tooth, 
This  tongue  has  learn'd,  with  bold  address, 
To  speak  all  earthly  things  but — truth. 
If  truth  and  want  of  cash  be  shown 
By  one  who  braves  a  foe's  just  ire, 
That  man  must  meet  his  doom  alone. 
We  lend  poor  fools  no  tongue  for  hire. 


153 


THE    FLOWER    OF    LEZAYRE 


Sweet  daughter  of  the  sea-girt  land, 
Fresh  rose-bud  bright  with  dew, 
Farewell  thy  smile,  thy  fairy  step, 
And  eyes  of  heaven's  own  blue; — 
Farewell  the  voice,  the  low  rich  voice, 
Whose  whisper'd  music  stole, 
More  welcome  than  the  sound  of  harps, 
To  charm  and  cheer  my  soul. 
The  tide,  which  calls  me  far  away, 
Now  beats  the  rough  worn  steep  ; 
The  blast,  that  fills  my  seaward  sail. 
Now  wakes  the  foaming  deep. 
11 


154  THE   FLOWER   OF   LEZAYRE. 

Can  I  forget  the  pure  delights 

Once  sought  and  shar'd  with  thee, 

The  ramble  up  the  fragrant  slope, 

The  walk  beside  the  sea, 

The  search  for  all  the  buds  and  birds, 

Which  love  the  forest  dell, 

The  plaintive  songs  which  thou  didst  sing, 

So  wildly  and  so  well ; 

The  wisdom  giean'd  from  some  rare  page, 

Where  wood-brooks  fret  and  foam, 

And  dearer  still,  the  sports  and  smiles, 

The  sacred  joys  of  home  ? 


Young  melodist  of  green  Lezayre, 

I  long  must  seek  in  vain, 

Those  radiant  smiles  and  pleasant  songs, 

In  realms  beyond  the  main. 

Full  often  will  I  breathe  thy  name 

In  many  a  crowded  street, 

In  halls  where  festive  lamps  are  lit, 

And  joyous  households  meet : 

This  heart  will  bear,  through  many  a  scene, 

A  deep  and  sore  regret, 

Dark,  dark,  as  are  thine  own  loved  hills, 

When  golden  suns  have  set. 


THE   FLOWER   OF    LEZAYRE.  155 

Farewell !  my  treasur'd  hopes  of  life 

May  pass  in  gloom  away, 

More  fleeting  than  the  lights  of  eve 

On  Eamsay's  summer  bay : 

They  may  vanish,  as  the  stormbow  fades 

On  Brada's  misty  shore, 

A  sun-burst  on  a  rainy  cloud, 

Which  gleams  and  is  no  more  ; 

But,  whatever,  in  the  years  to  come, 

My  path  and  place  may  be, 

I  still  must  think,  sweet  island  flower, 

Of  Mona's  vales  and  thee. 


156 


THE    SWEDISH   CECILIA'S   FAREWELL. 


Farewell,  thou  young  world  of  the  bold  and  the  free  ! 
How  often,  alone  by  the  Baltic's  rough  side, 
Had  I  long'd  to  look  thus  on  thy  people  and  thee, 
But  the  waters  between  us  lay  wrathful  and  wide. 
I  had  mark'd  thy  fresh  glories  aloft,  as  the  snows, 
Which  are  piled  on  some  chief  of  the  mountains  afar ; 
I  had  loved  the  green  land  where  a  Washington  rose, 
The  foremost  in  peace,  and  the  foremost  in  war. 

When  the  many  were  weak,  and  their  spoilers  were  strom 
I  heard  thee  named  first  in  the  bondsman's  low  prayer ; 
When  the  millions  rush'd  madly  to  battle  with  wrong 
On  the  broad  fields  of  Europe,  thy  spirit  was  there. 
Yet  learn  thou,  Columbia,  from  hamlet  to  State, 
These  words,  the  warm  breathings  of  truth,  ere  we  part ; 
I  thought  thee,  while  distant,  both  glorious  and  great, 
But  I  judg'd  thee  less  noble  and  blest  than  thou  art. 


THE   SWEDISH    CECILLA/3    FAREWELL.  L57 

Farewell !  may  thy  future  resemble  the  hours 

Of  my  own  Swedish  summer,  all  gladness  and  light, 

A  season  made  heavenly  by  music  and  flower.-. 

Blue  skies  without  tempest,  whole  weeks  without  night. 

May  thine  be  faith,  justice,  peace,  wisdom  and  love, 

And,  from  ocean  to  ocean,  long,  long  may  the  sun 

Behold,  as  he  travels  in  brightness  above. 

Thy  household  of  nations  though  many  yet  one. 


THE    END. 


